They grappled again. Krispos let out a whoop of glee. Now Beshev's skin was just skin—slick with sweat, yes, but not preternaturally so. When Krispos grabbed him, he stayed grabbed.
And when he hooked his leg behind Beshev's and pushed, Beshev went over it and down.
The Kubrati was a wrestler, though. He tried to twist while falling, as Krispos had before. Krispos sprang onto his back. Beshev levered himself up on his great arms. Krispos jerked them out from under him. Beshev went down flat on the sandy floor.
He tried to get up again. Krispos seized a great hank of greasy hair and slammed Beshev's face into the marble under the sand. Beshev groaned, then made one more effort to rise. Krispos smashed him down again. "For Stylianos!" he shouted. Beshev lay still.
Krispos climbed wearily to his feet. He felt the cheers of the crowd more than he heard them. Iakovitzes rushed up and kissed him, half on the cheek, half on the mouth. He did not even mind.
Something hit him in the heel. He whirled in shock—could Beshev want more? He was sure he'd battered the Kubrati into unconsciousness. But no, Beshev still had not moved. Instead, a goldpiece lay by Krispos' foot. A moment later, another one kicked up sand close by.
"Pick 'em up, fool!" Iakovitzes hissed. "They're throwing 'em for you."
Krispos started to bend down, then stopped. Was this how he wanted these nobles to remember him, scrambling for their coins like a dog chasing a thrown stick? He shook his head and straightened. "I fought for Videssos, not for gold," he said.
The cheers got louder. No one in the Hall of the Nineteen Couches knew why Krispos smiled so widely. Without the stake from Tanilis, he could never have afforded such a grand gesture.
He brushed at himself, knocking off as much sand as he could. "I'm going to put my robe back on," he said and walked out through the crowd. Men and women clasped his hands, touched him on the arm, and patted his back as he went by. Then they turned to jeer the Kubrati envoys who came into the open space to drag away their fallen champion.
The world briefly disappeared as Krispos pulled the robe on over his head. When he could see again, he found Petronas standing in front of him. He started to bow. The Sevastokrator raised a hand. "No formality needed, not after so handsome a victory," he said. "I hope you will not object if I choose to reward you, Krispos, so long as—" He let amusement touch his eyes, "—it is not in gold."
"How could I refuse?" Krispos said. "Wouldn't that be—what do they call it?—lese majesty?"
"No, for I am not the Avtokrator, only his servant," Petronas said with a perfectly straight face. "But tell me, how were you able to overthrow the savage Kubrati who had beaten all our best?"
"He likely had some help from that Gleb." Krispos explained how he knew, or thought he knew, what Gleb had been up to. He went on, "So I figured I would see how well Beshev fought without him making those tiny little Kubrati-style passes, and the big fellow was a lot easier to handle after that."
Petronas scowled. "Gleb always fidgets that way when we're dickering, as well. Do you suppose he's trying to ensorcel me?"
"You'd be able to guess that better than I could," Krispos said. "Could it hurt, though, to have a wizard of your own there the next time you talk with him?"
"It could not hurt at all, and I will do it," Petronas declared. "By the lord with the great and good mind, I wondered why I said yes to some of those proposals the Kubrati set before me. Now perhaps I know, and now I have two reasons to reward you, for you have done me two services this night."
"I thank you." Krispos did bow this time, and deeply. As he straightened, his face bore a sly grin. "And I thank you."
Petronas started to answer, then checked himself. He gave Krispos a long, considering look. "So you have a working wit, do you, to go along with your strength? That's worth knowing." Before Krispos could reply, the Sevastokrator turned away from him and called to the servants. "Wine! Wine for everyone, and let no one's cup be empty the rest of the night! We have a victory to celebrate, and a victor. To Krispos!"
The Videssian lords and ladies rased goblets high. "To Krispos!"
Krispos plied the currycomb with a rhythm that matched the dull pounding in his head. The warm, smelly stuffiness of the stables did nothing to help his hangover, but for once he did not mind headache or sour stomach. They reminded him that, though he was back to the down-to-earth routine of his job, the night before had really happened.
Not far away, Mavros whistled while he plied the shovel. Krispos laughed softly. Anything more down-to-earth than shoveling horse manure was hard to image. "Mavros?" he said.
The shovel paused. "What is it?"
"How come a fancy young noble like you doesn't mind mucking out the stables? I've shoveled plenty, here and back in my village with the goats and cows and sheep and pigs, but I never enjoyed it."
"To the ice with goats and cows and sheep and pigs. These are horses," Mavros said, as if that explained everything.
Maybe it even did, Krispos thought. Iakovitzes didn't mind working up a sweat in the stables, but Krispos could not picture him having anything to do with a pigsty. He shook his head. To anyone farm-bred like him, livestock was livestock. Getting sentimental about it was a luxury he hadn't been able to afford.
Such mostly pointless musing helped him get through the quarter of an hour he needed to finish bringing the coat of the mare he was working on to an even glow. Satisfied at last, he patted her on the muzzle and went on to the next stall.
He'd just started in when he head someone come into the stable. "Krispos! Mavros!" Gomaris called.
"What?" Krispos said, curious. Iakovitzes' steward hardly ever came back where the grooms labored.
"The master wants the two of you, right now," Gomaris said.
Krispos looked at Mavros. They both shrugged. "Beats working," Mavros said. "But I hope he'll give me a few minutes to wash and change clothes." He held his nose. "I'm not what you call presentable."
"Right now," Gomaris repeated.
"Well, all right," Mavros said, shrugging again. "On his floors be it."
As Krispos followed Gomaris up to the house, he wondered what was going on. Something out of the ordinary, obviously. He didn't think he was in trouble, not if Iakovitzes wanted to see Mavros, too. Unless—had Iakovitzes learned more of his connection with Tanilis, or of what she'd seen? But how could he have, here in the city when he hadn't in Opsikion?
A gray-haired man Krispos had not met was waiting with Iakovitzes. "Here they are, Eroulos, in all their—" Iakovitzes paused for an ostentatious sniff, "—splendor." He turned to his grooms. "Eroulos is steward of the household of his Imperial Highness the Sevastokrator Petronas."
Krispos bowed low. "Excellent sir," he murmured.
Mavros bowed even lower. "How may we serve you, eminent sir?"
"You will not serve me, but rather the Sevastokrator," Eroulos answered at once. He was still straight and alert, with the competent air Krispos would have expected from one of Petronas' aides. He went on, "His Imperial Highness promised you a reward for your courage last night, Krispos. He has chosen to appoint you chief groom of his stables. You, Mavros, are bidden to come to the palaces, as well, out of the respect the Sevastokrator bears for your mother."
While Krispos and Mavros gaped, Iakovitzes said gruffly, "You should both know I wouldn't permit such a raid on my staff from anyone less than Petronas. Even from him, I resent it. That's a waste of time, though; what the Sevastokrator wants, he gets. So go on, and show him and his folk what kind of people come from this house." That was Iakovitzes to the core, Krispos thought: as kind a farewell as the noble had in him, mixed with bragging and self-promotion.