"That's disgusting," Katakolon said, sick horror in his voice.
Zaidas, by contrast, sounded eager, like a hunting dog just catching a scent. "Tell me more," he urged.
Olyvria gave Phostis a curious look. "You never spoke to me of this before," she said.
"I know I didn't. I didn't even like to think about it. And besides, I didn't think saying anything would be safe in Etchmiadzin. Too many ears around." And even after they became lovers, he hadn't trusted her, not completely, not until she set upon Syagrios. That, though, he kept to himself.
"Go on," Zaidas said. "All the ears here are friendly."
In as much detail as he could, prompted by sharp questions from the mage, Phostis recounted following Artapan down the street, standing in the stinking alley listening to him talk with Tzepeas, and the Thanasiot's premature and assisted death. "That isn't the only time I saw him hovering over people who were on the point of starving, either," he said. "Remember,
Olyvria? He kept hanging around Strabon's house while he was dying."
"He did," she said, nodding. "With Strabon and others. I never thought much about it—wizards have their ways, that's all."
Zaidas stirred in his seat, but didn't say anything. For a man of his age he was, Phostis thought, reasonably normal save for his sorcerous talent. But then, he was the only wizard Phostis knew well. Who could say what others were like?
"Did he pray as he—ended—this heretic's life?" Zaidas asked. "Either to Phos or to the Four Prophets, I mean?"
"He spoke some in Makuraner, but since I don't understand it, I don't know what he said. I'm sorry," Phostis answered.
"Can't be helped," the mage said. "It probably doesn't matter in any case. As you've noted for yourself, the transition from life to death is a powerful source of magical energy. We who follow Phos are forbidden to exploit it, lest we grow to esteem the power so much that we fall into injustice, slaying for the sake of magic alone. I was given to understand that prohibition also applied to followers of the Prophets Four, but I may be wrong. On the other hand, Artapan—that was the name, not so?—may be as much a heretic by Mashiz's standards as the Thanasioi are by ours."
Krispos said, "This would all be very interesting if we were hashing it out as an exercise at the Sorcerers' Collegium, sorcerous sir, but how does it affect us here in the wider world? Suppose Artapan is using magic fueled by death? Does that make him more dangerous? How do we counteract his magic if it does?"
Behind her hand, Olyvria whispered, "Your father drives straight for the heart of a question."
"That he does." Phostis scratched at the side of his jaw. "He gets frustrated when others don't follow as quickly, as they often don't." He wondered if that accounted for some of his father's impatience with him. But how could someone just coming into manhood be expected to stay with the schemes of a grown man with the full power of experience who was also one of the master schemers that Videssos, a nation of schemers, had ever known?
Zaidas missed the byplay and spoke straight to Krispos: "Your Majesty, a mage who uses death energy in his thauma-turgy gains strength, aye, but he also becomes more vulnerable to others' magic. That sort of compensation is nothing surprising. Wizardry, no matter what the ignorant may think, offers no free miracles. What you gain in one area, you lose in another."
"That's not just wizardry—that's life," Krispos said. "If you've chosen to take on a big flock of sheep, you won't be able to plant as much barley."
Sarkis chuckled. "How many years on the throne, your Majesty, to have you still talking like a peasant? A proper Emperor now, one from the romances, would say you can't war in east and west at the same time, or some such."
"To the ice with the romances," Phostis broke in. "The next one that tells a copper's worth of truth will be the first."
He caught Krispos watching him with eyebrow upraised in speculation. Unabashed, the Avtokrator gave him a sober nod. "You're learning, lad."
"I will speak for the romances," Olyvria said. "Where but in them does the prisoner escape with the heresiarch's daughter who's fallen in love with him?"
Now Sarkis laughed out loud. "By the good god, she's caught father and son in the same net." He swigged wine, refilled his mug, and swigged again.
When Krispos turned his gaze on Olyvria, amusement sparked in his eyes. He dipped his head, as if she'd made a clever move at the board game. "There is something to what you say, lady."
"No, there's not," Phostis insisted. "In what romance isn't the woman a quivering wreck who requires some bold hero to rescue her? And in which of them does she rescue the hero by clouting the villain with a thundermug?"
"It seemed the handiest thing in the room," Olyvria said amid general laughter. "Besides, you can't expect a romance to have all the details straight."
"You have to watch this one, brother," Katakolon said. "She's quick."
The only things Katakolon looked for in his companions were looks and willingness. No wonder he went through them like a drunkard through a wine cellar, Phostis thought. But he didn't feel like quarreling with Katakolon, not tonight. "I'll take my chances," he said, and let it go at that.
Sarkis looked at the jar of wine in front of him, yawned, and shook his head. He climbed to his feet. "I'm for bed, your Majesty," he announced. He turned to Phostis. "Good to have you back, and your quick lady." He walked out into the night.
Zaidas also rose. "I'm for bed, too. Would I had the power to store up sleep as a dormouse stores fat for its winter rest. Spurred not least by what you've said tonight, young Majesty, I think I shall be engaged in serious sorcery soon, at which time I will call on all my bodily reserves. The good god grant that they suffice."
"How cozy—it's a family gathering now," Krispos said when the mage left. He was not being sardonic; he beamed from Katakolon to Phostis and on to Olyvria. That took a weight of worry from Phostis; a young man will seldom turn aside from his beloved at his father's urging, but that is not an urging he ever cares to hear.
Then Katakolon also stood up. He clapped Phostis on the back, careful to stay away from the wounded shoulder. "Wonderful you're here and mostly intact," he said. He nodded to Olyvria and Krispos, then followed Sarkis and Zaidas out of the pavilion.
"He didn't say anything about bed," Krispos said, half laughing, half sighing. "He's probably out prowling for a friendly wench among the camp followers. He'll probably find one, too."
"Now I know you believe our tale, your Majesty," Olyvria said.
"How's that?" Krispos asked. Phostis recognized his tone; it was the one he always used when he was finding out what his sons had learned of their lessons.
"If you didn't, you'd not be sitting here with the two of us closer to you than your guards are," she answered. "We're desperate characters, after all, and if we can turn a chamber pot into a weapon, who knows what we might do with a spoon or an inkwell?"
"Who indeed?" Krispos said with a small chuckle. He turned to Phostis. "She is quick—you'd better take good care of her." He was quick himself; he didn't miss the yawn Olyvria tried to hide. "Now you'd better take her back to your tent. Riding the courier circuit is wearing—I remember."
"I'll do that, Father," Phostis said. "But may I come back here for a few minutes afterward?" Both Olyvria and Krispos looked at him in surprise. "Something I want to ask you," he said, knowing it was not an explanation.
Krispos had to know that, too, but he nodded. "Whatever you like, of course."
Olyvria asked questions all the way to the tent that had been set up for them. Phostis didn't answer any of them. He knew how much that irked her, but held his course regardless. The most he would say was, "It's nothing to do with you."