Krispos the Emperor (26 page)

That second tubful began to give the fire company the upper hand. The blaze had eaten two or three stalls and damaged a couple of others, but it would not turn into a conflagration. Thokyodes came over to Krispos and greeted him with a crisp military salute, clenched fist over heart. "You called us in good time, your Majesty. We've managed to save this lot."

"Not the first service you've done the city—or me," Krispos answered; Thokyodes had served on the fire crews for longer than Krispos had been Emperor. "I wish I could tell you to stand easy the rest of the night, but I fear we'll have more fires set."

"Ah, well. Midwinter's Day is always a nervous time for us." Thokyodes stopped, staring at the Avtokrator. "Set, did you say? This wasn't just one of the bonfires' blowing embers that caught?"

"I wish it had been," Krispos said. "But no, no such luck. The Thanasioi are raising riot, and when they riot, they seem to like to burn, too. The less anyone has, the better they're pleased."

Thokyodes made a horrible face. "They're fornicating crazy, begging your pardon, your Majesty. Those bastards ever see anybody who's burned to death? They ever smelled a burned corpse? They ever try rebuilding what's been burned down?"

"I don't think they care about any of that. All they want is to get out of the material world as fast as they can."

"Send 'em on to me, then," Thokyodes growled. He carried a hatchet at his belt, to break down a wall so he could use his siphon or break through a door if he needed to effect a rescue. Now he grabbed the oak handle as if he had something else in mind for the tool. "Aye, I'll send 'em on to the ice real soon, I will, by the good god. Start their own fires, will they?" Like any fireman, he had a fierce, roaring hatred for arsonists of any sort, religious or secular.

A messenger came up to Krispos. Blood ran down his face from a scalp wound. When Krispos exclaimed over it, the man shook off his concern. "I'll live, your Majesty. The rock glanced off, and my father always told me I had a hard head. Glad the old man was right. But I'm here to tell you it's getting worse than just riots in the poor part of town south of Middle Street. It's regular war—they're fighting with everything they have. Not just rocks like what got me, but bows and shortswords and I don't know what all else."

"Do you know where the barracks are in the palace compound, and can you get there without falling over?" Krispos asked. When he got nods to both questions, he went on, "Rout out Noetos' regiment of regulars. If the Thanasioi want to pretend they're soldiers, let's see how well they do facing soldiers instead of the city watch."

"Aye, your Majesty," the messenger said. "You ought to send some priests out, too, for the heretics have one at their head, leather-lunged blue-robe name of—I think—Digenis."

Krispos frowned; while he knew he'd heard the name before, he needed a little while to place it. When he did, he snarled something that made the messenger's eyes widen. "That's the blue-robe Phostis fell in love with before he got kidnapped," he ground out. "If he's a Thanasiot—"

He stopped. If Digenis was a Thanasiot, did that mean Phostis had joined the heresy, too? Thinking so appalled Krispos, but he also realized that just about everything he did appalled Phostis, if for no other reason than because he did it. And if his eldest had become a Thanasiot, had he really been kidnapped at all? Or had he run off to join the rebels of his own free will?

One way or another, Krispos had to have answers. He said, "Pass the word—a hundred goldpieces for this Digenis alive, and may the lord with the great and good mind have mercy on anyone who slays him, for I'll have none."

"I'll make your wishes—your commands—known, your Majesty." The messenger took off at a dead run.

Krispos had no time to brood on the fellow's news; two men dashed into the plaza of Palamas from different directions, each screaming "Fire!" at the top of his lungs. "Thokyodes!" Krispos yelled. The veteran asked both panicky men a few sharp questions, decided whose plight was more urgent, and went off with that fellow. The other man stamped his feet and looked about ready to burst. Krispos hoped he wouldn't lose all that he owned by the time the fire company got back.

A bitterly cold wind began to blow out of the northwest, the direction from which the winter storms came. Krispos would have welcomed one of those storms, but bright stars glittered in a blue-black sky. No storm tonight; maybe, he thought, tasting the wind, no storm tomorrow, either. Of course not. He needed one.

Some of the palace servitors scurried about the plaza of Palamas, setting up awnings to protect him from whatever weather might come. Since he'd decided to make his headquarters here, the servants would see that he had such comforts as they could provide. Barsymes eyed him, daring him to make something of it. He kept quiet.

Along with the servitors, people of every sort swarmed through the plaza—soldiers, messengers, firemen, and revelers determined to celebrate Midwinter's Day as they pleased no matter what was going on around them. The skinny fellow in the dark tunic didn't look the least out of place as he worked his way up to Krispos. When he got to within a couple of paces of the Avtokrator, he pulled out a dagger and screamed, "Phos bless the gleaming path!"

He stabbed overhand, which was less than wise. Krispos threw up a hand and caught the fellow's wrist before the knife struck home. The would-be assassin twisted and tried to break free, screaming all the while about the gleaming path. But Krispos had learned to wrestle from an army veteran about the time his beard began to sprout, and he had gained his first fame in Videssos the city by outgrappling a Kubrati champion. Shouting and twisting were not nearly enough to break away from him.

He bore the knifeman to the cobbles, squeezing hard on the tendons inside his wrist. Involuntarily, the Thanasiot's hand opened. When the knife fell out, the fellow tried to roll and grab for it. Krispos brought up a knee, hard, between his legs. It was unsporting but extremely effective. The fellow stopped screaming about the gleaming path and started screaming in good earnest.

A Haloga's axe came down with a meaty
thunk.
The screams rose to a brief high note, then stopped. Krispos scrambled to his feet to keep his robes from soaking up the quickly spreading pool of blood.

"I'd like to have asked him some questions," he said mildly.

"Honh!" the bodyguard answered, a northern exclamation full of contempt. "He attacked you, your Majesty; he did not deserve to live, even for a moment."

"All right, Trygve," Krispos said. If he criticized the northerner too harshly, Trygve was liable to decide the knifeman had managed to come so close to the Emperor because of his own failing, and slay himself to make up for it. The Halogai were wonderful guards, but they had to be handled very differently from Videssians. Krispos had spent twenty years groping toward an understanding of their gloomy pride; given another twenty, he thought he might come close.

Thokyodes and his fire company returned to the plaza of Palamas. The fellow whose earlier plea they'd rejected fell on them like a starving bear. Without so much as a chance to draw breath, they hurried away in his wake. Krispos wondered if they'd find anything left to save.

From out of the palace complex, their armor clashing about them, marched the troops who had served as Krispos' rear guard in the ill-fated western campaign. They looked angry, first at being confined to barracks on Midwinter's Day and then at getting called out not to celebrate but to fight. As they grimly tramped through the plaza of Palamas, Krispos reflected that he wouldn't have cared to get in their way this evening.

A few minutes later, the noise floating into the square from the rest of the city suddenly redoubled. It did not sound like happy noise. Happy was the grunt that came from Trygve's throat. "Your soldiers, they go breaking heads." To him, the prospect seemed blissful.

Krispos watched the stars wheel slowly across the sky. He caught himself yawning. Though he was far more likely than most Videssians to stay up well into the night—who, after all, could better afford candles than the Avtokrator?—he still went to bed early by choice. Well, tonight he had no choice.

A trooper came back to report on the fighting south of Middle Street. He didn't seem to notice his iron pot of a helmet had been knocked sideways on his head. Saluting, he confirmed the headgear's mute testimony: "Your Majesty, them whoresons is putting up a regular battle, they is. They's been ready for it awhile, too, or I miss my guess."

"Don't tell me they're beating the regiment," Krispos exclaimed.
You'd better not tell me that,
he thought,
or some of my officers won't be officers by this hour of the night tomorrow.

But the trooper shook his head. "Oh, nothing like that. They has spunk, aye, and more stay to 'em than I'd have looked for from a mob, but they ain't got armor and they ain't got many shields. We can hurt them a lot more than they can hurt us."

"Tell Noetos to do what he has to do to put them down," Krispos said. "Remind him also to make every effort to seize the priest Digenis, who I've heard is leading the rioters."

"Aye, there's a blue-robe flouncing about, shouting all sorts of daft nonsense. I figures we'd just knock him over the head." Krispos winced; somehow rumor seemed to spread every word but the one he wanted spread. "But if you want him took alive, we'll try and manage that."

"There's a reward," Krispos said, which made the messenger hurry back toward the brawl.

Waiting was hard. Krispos would much rather have been with a fire company or the regiment of soldiers. They were actually doing something. But if he did it with them, he'd lose track of how all his forces in the city were doing, save only the one he was with. Sometimes standing back to look at the whole mosaic was better than walking right up to it and peering closely at one tile. Better, maybe, but not easier.

Without his noticing, the servitors had fetched cots from the imperial residence—or perhaps from a barracks—and set them under the awning they'd erected. Evripos dozed on one, Katakolon on another. The girl who'd come to the Amphitheater with him was gone. Krispos knew his son would sooner have been in her bed than the one he occupied, but he felt a certain amount of amused relief that Katakolon hadn't dared leave. The boy knew better than that, by the good god.

Glancing over at Evripos, Krispos was surprised at how badly he wanted to wake him and put him to work. The lad—no, Evripos had shown himself the fair beginnings of a man—could have given him another pair of eyes, another pair of hands. But Krispos let him sleep.

Even though the fires in the plaza of Palamas were long since extinguished, Krispos smelled smoke from time to time, wafted from blazes elsewhere in the city. The wind, fortunately, had died down. With luck, it would not spread flames and embers in one of those running fires that left whole quarters bare behind them; rebuilding after one like that took years.

Krispos sat down on his cot.
Just for a few minutes,
he told himself. He dimly remembered leaning over sideways, but didn't know he'd fallen asleep until someone yelled, "Your Majesty! Wake up, your Majesty!"

"Wuzzat? I
am
awake," Krispos said indignantly. But the gluey taste in his mouth and the glue that kept trying to stick his eyelids together gave him the lie. "Well, I'm awake now," he amended. "What's toward?"

"We've nailed Digenis, your Majesty," the messenger told him. "Had a couple of lads hurt in the doing, but he's in our hands."

"There's welcome news at last, by the lord with the great and good mind," Krispos breathed. With it, he really did come all the way awake. He must have been out for two hours or so; the buildings to the southeast were silhouetted against the first gray glow of morning twilight. When he got to his feet, twinges in the small of his back and one shoulder announced how awkwardly he'd rested. That wouldn't have happened in his younger days, but it happened now.

"We're bringing the bastard—begging your pardon for speaking so of a priest, your Majesty, but he's a right bastard if ever there was one—anyhow, we're bringing him back here to the plaza," the messenger said. "Where will you want him after that?"

"In the freezingest icepit of Skotos' hell," Krispos said, which jerked a startled laugh from the soldier who'd carried him the news. The Avtokrator thought fast. "He shouldn't come here, anyway—too much chance of his getting loose. Head up Middle Street—he'll be coming that way, yes?—and tell the men to haul him to the government office building there and secure him in one of the underground gaol cells. I'll be there directly myself."

Pausing only long enough to return the messenger's salute, Krispos shook Katakolon awake and ordered him to fetch Zaidas to the government office building. "What? Why?" asked Katakolon, who'd slept through the messenger's arrival. His eyes went wide when his father explained.

Haloga officers booted their men back to consciousness to guard Krispos on the way down Middle Street. With his usual quiet efficiency, Barsymes—who probably had not slept at all—started spreading word of where the Avtokrator would be so any sudden urgent word could quickly reach him.

The government office building was a granite pile of no particular loveliness. It housed bureaucrats of station insufficiently exalted to labor in the palaces, records of antiquity great enough that they were not constantly consulted, and, below-ground, prisoners who rated more than a fine but less than the headsman. It looked like a fortress; in seditions past, it had served as one.