Bridge of the Separator

From the Silver Gate to the palaces was only a couple of miles. Rhavas needed close to two hours to get where he was going. By the time he did, he was shouting and waving a fist at the idiots all around him as if he'd never been away.

The city's biggest market square, the plaza of Palamas, lay just east of the palace quarter. That let cooks and other servitors get what they needed with the greatest possible convenience. But the square wasn't just for the Avtokrator's staff. Everyone in the capital either bought or sold there—often both.

In rapid succession, men tried to sell Rhavas cabbages, amber beads, pewter spoons, silver spoons, gold spoons, vinegar, wine, rope, lamps, olive oil, onions, fermented fish sauce, and their allegedly beautiful alleged sisters. "No," he said. "No!" he exclaimed. "No!" he shouted. But nothing held back the tide of hucksters.

And then, after what seemed like forever, he reached the Milestone, the black stone column from which all distances in the Empire of Videssos were reckoned. The Milestone also had another function: the heads of executed miscreants were displayed there as a warning to others not to do likewise.

When Rhavas had lived in the capital before, the occasional murderer or robber found at least part of his final resting place at the base of the Milestone. But the Empire was at peace then. Now the Milestone seemed like a tree with a great crop of fruit in front of it. And the placards below almost every head on display said, "Traitor."

If so many were traitors—and Rhavas was sure a good many did back Stylianos, which was bound to look like treason to Maleinos—how much were these heads doing to deter treason? Not much, not so far as he could tell. He wondered if his cousin would feel the same after hearing an explanation of that point of view. Converting Maleinos to the worship of Skotos would probably be easier.

Then Rhavas rode into the palace quarter. The hubbub of the plaza of Palamas faded behind him. People who did not belong in this part of the city knew better than to venture in. For the first time since passing through the Silver Gate, Rhavas found himself not trapped in a surging crowd. These paths through lawns and gardens and elegant buildings were quiet, almost deserted.

A man whose hairy arms were white to the elbows with flour—a baker—nodded to Rhavas. "Can I do something for you, holy sir?" he asked—politely, but with the air of a man who needed to like the answer he heard if there wasn't going to be trouble afterward.

"I certainly hope so," Rhavas said. "I am his Majesty's cousin, escaped from the sack of Skopentzana and newly returned to the capital."

The baker's jaw dropped. Whatever he'd expected by way of reply, that wasn't it. "The Avtokrator's . . . cousin?" he said, as if unsure he'd heard correctly.

"That's right." Rhavas gave his name and station.

"I've never heard of you, uh, holy, uh, very holy sir," the baker said. Then he decided he'd better hedge his bets: "That doesn't mean anything, of course. Why don't you, uh, go on to the throne room? They'll know what to do with you there. You know how to find the place?"

"Yes, I know," Rhavas answered, not rising to the challenge. If he didn't know how to get to the throne room, he wasn't likely to be the Avtokrator's cousin. And if he wasn't the Avtokrator's cousin, they would know what to do with him—and to him—there. He wouldn't enjoy it, though.

"Here, why don't I come with you anyway?" the baker said.

"All right—why don't you?" Rhavas said agreeably. "You won't get a reward for proving me a fraud, though, because I'm not."

"I didn't say you were." No, the baker wasn't taking any chances with someone who might really turn out to be important.

He also had a little more shrewdness than Rhavas would have guessed. He didn't guide the newcomer to the throne room, but followed Rhavas' lead, his own features carefully blank. If Rhavas didn't know the way, he would betray himself. But he truly did. If the baker was impressed, he didn't show it.

The splendid bronze doors to the throne room were closed. Guards in mail stood in front of them. The men watched impassively as Rhavas dismounted, tied up his horse, and walked over to the base of the stairway. He asked, "Is anyone in the throne room who has served his Majesty since the earliest days of his reign?"

"Who wants to know, and why?" one of the soldiers asked with studied insolence.

Rhavas answered as he had with the baker. The guard lost a good deal of his high-and-mighty air. He put his head together with his comrades. Then he tugged at the handle to one of the doors. It swung smoothly on silent hinges despite its great weight. He ducked inside.

When he came back, he was followed by a dignified, gray-bearded man in a splendid silk robe. Rhavas bowed to the official. "Good day, Markianos," he said. "It's been a long time, eminent sir, hasn't it?"

Some of Markianos' dignity fell away. "It really is you, Rhavas!" he exclaimed. "When the guard told me a priest who claimed to be his Majesty's cousin was here, I hardly dared believe it. We learned some time ago of Skopentzana's piteous overthrow. Welcome home, by the good god!" He sketched Phos' sun-sign.