His pursuers were very close, but fell back in dismay at the sight of the gleaming blade. Almost alclass="underline" Karloman, brave as well as clever, leaped forward to lay hold of the horse’s reins. Argyros slashed, felt the sword bite flesh. Karloman fell. Argyros roweled his horse into a gallop, rode down another overly intrepid monk, and dashed for the monastery gate.
Karloman was not dead; Argyros heard him shouting, “Never mind me, you fools. After him!” At the healer’s bawled orders, monks ran to get weapons, saddle horses, turn loose the monastery hounds. That command alarmed the magistrianos, but it was the last one he heard. Urging his mount ahead for all it was worth, he thundered through the open gates and down the road.
His horse’s muscles surged against his thighs; the wind of its headlong gallop tore tears from his eyes. St. Gall’s fields of wheat, rye, and barley blurred by on either side. Someone in one of the watchtowers sounded a horn. Argyros had no trouble guessing what the call meant.
To escape the all-seeing eye up there, he made for the woods, where he hoped Wighard was still waiting. A glance over his shoulder showed there was still no mounted pursuit. He let his panting horse slow from its sprint to a fast trot. If it broke down, he was done for. He slowed again at the edge of the woods to give his eyes a chance to adjust to the gloom. Silent as a shadow, Wighard stepped into the roadway. “Fine ruction you stirred up back there,” the Anglelander observed. “D’you have the spell, man?”
“The answer, yes.”
“Then we’d best not wait around, eh?” Wighard said, mounting and digging his heels into his horse’s flanks. The magistrianos followed.
As soon as the road made a sharp bend, the Anglelander rigged a trip-rope. He grinned at Argyros.
“They’ll be coming hell for leather after you. With luck, this’ll take out two or three and make the rest thoughtful.”
“Splendid,” Argyros said. He took a packet of finely ground pepper from his saddlebag and scattered it behind them. “The dogs will need distracting, too.”
“Aye, so they will,” Wighard agreed. “Best take no chances with ‘em.” After he and Argyros had ridden on for a few paces, he dug out an old rag and tossed it into a clump of brambles by the side of the road. Seeing Argyros’s quizzical look, he explained, “Soaked in the piss of a bitch in heat.”
The magistrianos burst out laughing. He heard the horn again, faint now in the distance. Thin as the buzz of summer insects came the monks’ cries: “Hurry there!” “Don’t let him get away!”
Too late, Argyros thought—I’ve already done it. He and Wighard rode in companionable silence until they came to an icy stream—a young river, in fact—that eventually ran north into Lake Constant. They splashed along in the shallows against the current for a couple of miles to finish confusing the hounds (they had heard yapping far behind them a while ago, first agonized, then suddenly frantic). When they were sure they were safe, they doubled back across country for Turic. Argyros was already thinking of the trip back to the Empire. It would be easy, save perhaps for the Pennine pass; the idea of a September blizzard made the magistrianos shiver all over. The hostels in the pass bred big dogs to rescue stranded travelers, but they did not save them all.
The magistrianos thought for a moment that the chill against his throat was only a reflection of his reverie. Then he realized it was the edge of Wighard’s dagger. “The spell, man,” the Anglelander said hoarsely.
“How do you summon up the demons?”
“There are no demons,” Argyros said.
The dagger dug in. “You lying kern! I could fair watch you plotting to go your merry way without keeping your promise, but you’ll not get away with that, not alive. Tell me how to raise the devils or I’ll slit your weasand on the spot.”
Getting away with the secret all to himself had always been in the back of Argyros’s mind, but the kiss of steel put an end to that scheme. His voice quivered: “Very well, then, here it is, just as I learned it. ...”
The seasons spin around like wheels. By the Inner Sea, though, the turning is more gentle. Mellow autumn lay on Constantinople a month after snow had come to the Alps. A toy fortress, its walls as high as a man’s knee and three digits thick, stood in the center of a secluded grassy courtyard between two buildings in the palace compound. Argyros and an older, stouter man walked across the lawn to the miniature fortress. The magistrianos carried a small, tightly stoppered winejug in his left hand; a bit of oily rag protruded from a hole drilled through the center of a cork. In his other hand Argyros held a lighted torch. He was careful to keep it well away from the jug.
“I think we are finally ready to demonstrate this for you, your illustriousness,” he said. “The craftsmen at the arsenal say the key to a reliable product is grinding all the ingredients to a fine powder before mixing.”
“Very well, my new Kallinikos, you’ve done splendidly thus far; by all means show me,” George Lakhanodrakon said amiably. The magnitude of the compliment from the Master of Offices made Argyros flush; Kallinikos had invented the Empire’s liquid fire.
The magistrianos set the winejug at a corner inside the model fort’s walls. He stooped to touch the torch to the rag. Watching with interest, Lakhanodrakon asked, “Now what?”
The flame caught. “Now, sir, we retire in haste.” Argyros dropped the torch and loped away. The Master of Offices followed more sedately. Not only was he heavier than the magistrianos; despite descriptions, he had no real sense of what was about to happen.
Argyros turned his head to warn him to make better speed. Too late—at that moment, the flame worked down the rag into the winejug. The explosion made his ears ring. The half-bricks from which the little keep had been built flew apart as if kicked. A tiny fragment of jug or brick stung Argyros’s neck. He yelped and rubbed at the spot.
And George Lakhanodrakon shot by, running as though the blast had hurled him forward. When no further thunderclaps came, the Master of Offices warily turned back to see the results of the experiment. His strong, fleshy Armenian face had gone rather pale.
The corner of the model where Argyros had nestled the winejug was utterly thrown down; the walls that had met there leaned drunkenly. The breeze was thinning the cloud of gray smoke, letting the great shouldering bulk of Hagia Sophia dominate the northern skyline once more. Lakhanodrakon licked dry lips. “It’s like your first woman,” he whispered. “All the telling in the world doesn’t matter a damn.”
Argyros had put the echoing silence within the halls to either side down to the blast having stunned his ears, but it was real, brought on by startled people stopping dead. After a few seconds there were screams and exclamations: “What was that?” “Help me, St. Andreas!”—Constantinople’s patron.
“Earthquake!” “Mother of God, help me!” Faces appeared in a score of windows. A squad of excubitores came dashing around the corner, gaudy in their clinging white leggings, silk surcoats, and golden torcs and belts. Each soldier’s brightly painted shield was blazoned with the sacred labarum:? . Brandishing their spears, they looked wildly in all directions until they recognized Lakhanodrakon. They crowded round him, pelting him with questions.
Argyros admired the way the Master of Offices pulled himself together and calmed the imperial bodyguards without revealing anything of importance. They were scratching their heads as they went back to their post, but they went. One by one, the staring servants and officials in the palace buildings also decided the excitement was over and returned to work.
Eyeing the wrecked model, Lakhanodrakon waited until everyone was out of earshot. Then he said, “You really mean to tell me there’s no witchcraft in that, Basil?”