'No, not yet. For one thing—' The Emperor grinned a small-boy grin, '—Trokoundos doesn't know I
'Of course, your Majesty. I always try to please you that way.' Once more, Krispos wondered why Anthimos couldn't give, if not all, at least most of his attention to Dara. If nothing else, he'd have a better chance of begetting a legitimate heir if he spent some time with his own wife. It was not as if she were undesirable, Krispos thought—quite the opposite, in fact.
Whatever Anthimos' newfound sorcerous talents, he could not read minds. At the moment, perhaps, that was just as well. The Avtokrator went on, 'I can hardly wait to show off my magecraft at a feast. For that, though, I'll need something rather more impressive than cleaning my hands without pumice. I tried something once, and it didn't work.'
'You did?' Now Krispos didn't care if he sounded appalled. A mage who botched a spell was apt to be in even more immediate need of an heir than an Avtokrator. 'What did you do?'
Anthimos looked sheepish. 'I tried giving wings to one of the little tortoises that crawl through the gardens. I thought it would be amusing, flying around inside the hall where I usually have my feasts. But I must have done something wrong, because I ended up with a pigeon with a shell. Promise me you won't tell Trokoundos?'
'You're lucky you didn't end up shifting the shell to your own foolish face,' Krispos said sternly. Anthimos shifted from foot to foot like a schoolboy taking a scolding he knew he deserved. As had happened so often before, Krispos found he could not stay angry at him. Shaking his head, he went on, 'All right, I won't tell Trokoundos if you promise me you'll stop mucking about with things you don't understand.'
'I won't,' Anthimos said. He had gone off to look at the robe he would wear to the evening's festivities before Krispos noticed he hadn't quite made a promise. Even if he had, Krispos doubted he would have taken it seriously enough to keep. Anthimos just did not believe anything bad could ever happen to him.
Krispos knew better. If growing up on a farm had done nothing else for him, it had done that.
X
The bell beside Krispos' bed tinkled softly. He woke up muttering to himself. When Anthimos held a feast, he was expected to roister along with the Emperor—and the Emperor was better than he at doing without sleep. When Anthimos spent a night with Dara in the imperial residence, Krispos expected to have the chance to catch up on his rest.
Even as he slipped a robe over his head, he knew he was not being fair. Though he'd got into the habit of keeping a lamp burning all night long to help him dress quickly in case the Avtokrator needed him, Anthimos seldom called him after he'd gone to bed. But tonight, he thought grouchily, only went to show that seldom didn't mean never.
He walked out his door and four or five steps down the hall to the imperial bedchamber. That door was closed, but a light showed under it. He opened the door. Anthimos and Dara turned their heads toward him.
He stopped in his tracks and felt his face go flame-hot. 'Y-your pardon, I pray,' he stammered. 'I thought the bell summoned me.'
'Don't go away, at least not yet. I did call you,' the Emperor said, calm as if he'd been interrupted playing draughts—or at one of his revels. After that first startled glance toward the door, Dara looked down at Anthimos. Her long dark hair, undone now, spilled over her shoulders and veiled her so that Krispos could not see her face. Anthimos brushed some of that shining hair away from his nose and went on, 'Fetch me a little olive oil, if you please, Krispos; that's a good fellow.'
'Yes, your Majesty,' Krispos said woodenly. He hurried out of the bedchamber. Behind him, he heard Anthimos say, 'Why did you slow down, my dear? That was nice, what you were doing.'
He found a jar of oil faster than he really wanted to. In truth, he did not want to go back to the bedchamber at all. Seeming a eunuch around Dara had been simple at first, but less easy after that night when she first let him see her as a person rather than an Empress. Now ... now he would have trouble not imagining his body in place of Anthimos' under hers.
As he went back down the hall, he wondered what she thought. Maybe she was used to this, as Anthimos was. In that case, she would also be used to taking no notice of what servants imagined. Probably just as well, he thought.
He paused in the doorway. 'Took you long enough,' Anthimos said. 'Don't just stand there, bring the oil over to me. How do you expect me to get it when you're half a mile away?'
Krispos reluctantly approached. Dara's head was lowered; her hair hid her face from him again. He did not want to speak or force her to notice his presence any more than she had to. Without a word, he held out the jar to the Avtokrator.
Anthimos dipped his fingers into it. 'You can set it on the night table now, Krispos, in case we want more later on.' Krispos nodded, did as he was told, and got out, but not before he heard the tiny smooth sound of Anthimos' slickened fingers sliding over Dara's skin.
He threw himself back into bed with what he knew was altogether unnecessary violence, and lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling. The flickering shadows the lamp cast there all looked lewd. Eventually it began to rain. The soft patter of raindrops on roof tiles lulled him to sleep at last.
He jerked in dismay when the bell woke him the next morning; returning to the Emperor's chamber was the last thing he felt like doing. What he felt like doing, however, mattered not in the least to Anthimos. The bell rang again, louder and more insistently. Krispos pulled on a clean robe and went to do his master's bidding.
But for the jar of olive oil on the table by the bed, the previous night might not have happened. As far as Anthimos was concerned, it plainly hadn't. 'Good day,' he said. 'Rain, I see. Do you think it's just a shower, or is the fall wet season coming early this year?'
'It'll hurt the harvest if it is,' Krispos answered, relieved to be able to talk dispassionately. 'Do you prefer the purple robe today, your majesty, or the leek green?'
'The green, I think.' Anthimos got out of bed and gave an exaggerated shiver. 'Brr! Fall certainly seems to be
