"No," Krispos said with a shudder. An army that seemed bent on wanton killing would be just what the countryside needed to throw it into the rebels' camp. Controlling his features as best he could, the Avtokrator went on, "Bury it or toss it in a ditch or do whatever you please, as long as you don't display it. We want the people to know we've come to root out the heretics, not to glory in gore."
"However you'd have it, your Majesty," the courier said cheerfully. He rode off happy enough with his reward, even though the Emperor had turned down the suggestion he'd made. Krispos knew some Avtokrators—not the worst of rulers Videssos had ever had, either—would have taken him up on it, or had the idea for themselves. But he did not have the stomach for it.
After the army made camp, he went over to Zaidas' pavilion. He found the Thanasiot prisoner tied to a folding chair and the mage looking frustrated. Zaidas gestured to the apparatus he'd set up. "You are familiar with the two-mirror spell for determining truth, your Majesty?"
"I've seen it used, yes," Krispos answered. "Why? Are you having trouble with it?"
"That would be putting it mildly. It yields me nothing— nothing, do you hear?" Normally among the gentlest of men. Zaidas looked ready to tear the answer to his failure out of the prisoner with red-hot pincers.
"Can it be shielded against?" Krispos asked.
"Obviously it can." Zaidas gave the Thanasiot another glare before continuing. "This I knew before. But I never thought to find such shielding on a fleabitten trooper like this. If all the rebels are warded in like fashion, interrogation will become less certain and more bloody."
"The good god's truth armors me," the young captive declared. He sounded proud, as if he failed to realize his immunity would only cause him to be given over to torment.
"Any chance he's telling the truth?" Krispos asked.
Zaidas made a scornful noise, then suddenly turned thoughtful. "Maybe his fanaticism does afford some protection," the mage said. "One of the reasons sorcery so often fails in battle is that men at a high pitch of excitement are less vulnerable to its effects. Fervent belief in the righteousness of his cause may raise this fellow to a similar, less vulnerable, plane."
"Can you learn whether this is so?"
"It would take some time." Zaidas pursed his lips and seemed on the point of retreating into one of his brown studies.
Krispos forestalled him. Whenever magic touched the Thanasioi, something went wrong. Zaidas hadn't been able to learn where the heretics had taken Phostis—whose absence, unexpectedly, was an ache that only the endless work of the campaign held at bay—he hadn't been able to learn why he couldn't learn that, and now he couldn't even squeeze truth from an ordinary prisoner. To him, that made the young Thanasiot an intriguing challenge. To Krispos, it made the rebel an obstacle to be crushed, since he would not yield to gentler methods.
Harshly the Avtokrator said, "Let the men in red leather have him." Interrogators who used no magic wore red to hide the stains of their trade.
In his youth, Krispos would have been slower to give that order. He knew his years on the throne—and his desire to remain there for more years—had hardened him; even corrupted might not have been too strong a word. But he was also introspective enough to recognize that hardening and resist it save in times of dire need. This, he judged, was one of those times.
The Thanasiot's shrieks kept him awake long into the night. He was a ruler who did what he thought he had to do; he was no monster. Some time past midnight, he downed a beaker of wine and let the grape put a blurry curtain between him and the screaming. At last he slept.
V
After a lifetime spent within hearing of the sea, Phostis found the hill country he traveled through strange in more ways than he could count. The moaning wind sounded wrong. It even smelled wrong, carrying the odors of dirt and smoke and livestock, but not the salt tang he'd never noticed till he met it no more.
Instead of being able to look out from a tall window and see far across blue water, he now found his horizon limited to a few hundred yards of gray rock, gray-brown dirt, and gray-green brush. The wagon in which he rode bumped along over winding trails so narrow he wouldn't have thought a horse able to use them, let alone a vehicle with wheels.
And, of course, no one had ever used him as Syagrios and Olyvria did now. All through his life, people had jumped to obey, even to anticipate, his every whim. "Die only exceptions he'd known were his father, his mother when she was alive, and his brothers—and, being the eldest, he was pretty good at getting his way with Evripos and Katakolon. That a rebel officer's daughter and a ruffian could not only disobey him but give orders themselves had never crossed his mind, even in nightmare.
That they could do anything else had never crossed their minds. As the road took another of its innumerable twists, Syagrios said, "Down flat, you. Anybody who sees you is likely to be one of us, but ain't nobody gets old on 'likely.' "
Phostis scrambled down into the wagon bed. The first time Syagrios told him to do that, he'd balked—whereupon Syagrios clouted him. He couldn't jump out of the wagon and run; a stout rope bound his ankle to a post. He could stand up and yell for help, but as Syagrios had said, most of the people hereabouts were themselves Thanasioi.
Syagrios had said something else, too, when he tried to disobey: "Listen, boy, you may think you can pop up like a spring toy and get us killed. You may even be right. But you better think about this, too: I promise you won't be around to see our heads go up on the Milestone."
Was he bluffing? Phostis didn't think so. A couple of times, other wagons or horsemen had trotted past, but he'd lain quiet. Most of the times he was ordered into the wagon bed, as now, no one came round the blind corner. After a minute or two, Syagrios said, "All right, kid, you can come back up."
Phostis returned to his place between the burly driver and Olyvria. He said, "Where are you taking me, anyhow?"
He'd asked that question ever since he was kidnapped. As usual, Olyvria answered, "What you don't know, you can't tell if you're lucky enough to get away." She brushed back a curl that had slipped out to tickle her cheek. "If you decide you want to try to get away, that is."
"I might be less inclined to. if you'd trust me more," he said. In his theology he was not far from the Thanasioi. But he had a hard time loving people who'd drugged, kidnapped, beaten, and imprisoned him. He considered that from a theological point of view. Should he not approve of them for removing him from the obscenely comfortable world in which he'd dwelt?
No. Maybe he was imperfectly religious, but he still thought of those who tormented him as his enemies.
Olyvria said, "I'm not the one who can decide whether you're to be trusted. My father will do that when you come before him."
"When will that be?" Phostis asked for at least the dozenth time.
Syagrios answered before Olyvria could: "Whenever it is. You ask too bloody many questions, you know that?"
Phostis maintained what he hoped was a dignified silence. He feared hope outran reality. Dignity came easily when backed up with embroidered robes, unquestioned authority, and a fancy palace with scores of servants. It was harder to bring off for someone in a threadbare tunic with a rope round his ankle, and harder still when a few days before he'd fouled himself while in the power of the people he was trying to impress.
The wagon rattled around another bend, which meant Phostis spent more time hiding—or was the proper expression being hidden? Even his grammar tutor would have had trouble deciding that—in the back of the wagon. This time, though, Syagrios grunted in satisfaction when the corner was safely turned; Olyvria softly clapped her hands together.