Free Krispos the Emperor by Harry Turtledove Page B

folk who most often prayed in the High Temple. His brief anger at being excluded from whatever they knew soon faded. He wished he could find something to believe in with as much force as these people gave to their faith.
    The priest raised his hands to the heavens, then spat between Ills feet in ritual rejection of Skotos. He led the worshipers in Phos' creed one last time, then announced the end of the lit urgy. As Phostis turned and left the temple, once more bracketed fore and aft by his bodyguards, he felt a sense of loss and regret on returning to the mundane world that he'd never known when departing from the superficially more awesome setting of the High Temple. An impious comparison crossed his mind: it was almost as if he were returning to himself after the piercing pleasure of the act of love.
    He shook his head. As the priest had said, what were those thrashings and moanings, what were any earthly delights, if they imperiled his soul?
    "Excuse me," someone said from behind him: the butcher. Phostis turned. So did the Halogai with him. The axes twitched In their hands, as if hungry for blood. The butcher ignored them; he spoke to Phostis as if they were not there: "Friend, you seem to have thought well of what you heard in the temple. That's just a hunch of mine, mind you—if I'm wrong, you tell me and I'll go my way."
    "No, good sir, you're not wrong." Phostis wished he'd thought to say "friend," too. Well, too late now. He continued, "Your priest there preaches well, and has a fiery heart like few i 've heard. What good is wealth if it hides in a hoard or is wan tonly wasted when so many stand in need?"
    "What good is wealth?" the butcher said, and let it go at that. If his eye flicked over the fine robe Phostis wore, they did so too fast for the younger man to notice. The butcher went on, "Maybe you would like to hear more of what the holy sir—his name's Digenis, by the way—has to say, and hear it in a more private setting?"
    Phostis thought about that. "Maybe I would," he said at last, for he did want to hear the priest again.
    Had the butcher smiled or shown triumph, his court-sharpened suspicions would have kindled. But the fellow only gave a sober nod. That convinced Phostis of his sincerity, if nothing more. He decided he would indeed try to have that more private audience with Digenis. He'd found this morning that shaking off his bodyguards was anything but easy. Still, there might be ways ...
    Katakolon stood in the doorway to the study, waiting until Krispos chanced to look up from the tax register he was examining. Eventually Krispos did. He put down his pen. "What is it, son? Come in if you have something on your mind."
    By the nervous way in which Katakolon approached his desk, Krispos could make a pretty good guess as to what "it" might be. His youngest son confirmed that guess when he said, "May it please you, Father, I should like to request another advance on my allowance." His smile, usually so sunny, had the hangdog air it assumed whenever he had to beg money from his father.
    Krispos rolled his eyes. " Another advance? What did you spend it on this time?"
    "An amber-and-emerald bracelet for Nitria," Katakolon said sheepishly. 
    "Who's Nitria?" Krispos asked. "I thought you were sleeping with Varina these days."
    "Oh, I still am. Father," Katakolon assured him. "The other one's new. That's why I got her something special."
    "I see," Krispos said. He did, too, in a strange sort of way. Katakolon was a lad who generally liked to be liked. With a youth's enthusiasm and stamina, he also led a love life more complicated than any bureaucratic document. Krispos knew a small measure of relief that he'd managed to remember the name of his son's current—or, by the sound of things, soon to be current but one—favorite. He sighed. "How much of an allowance do you get every month?"
    "Twenty goldpieces, Father."
    "That's right, twenty goldpieces. Do you have any idea how
    old I was, son, before I had