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He seemed to find a special beauty in the simple ceremony accompanying the
wine that Zautzes' servant poured for them. Even spitting in rejection of
Skotos took on a new meaning, a new truth. The change wasn't in the ritual or
even in the wine, though that was very good. Rhavas needed a little while to
realize it, but the change was in himself he was all but giddy with relief.
"Tell me more," he kept saying to Zautzes. "By the good god, tell me more.
Driven off in headlong retreat? Retreat in which direction?"
"Away from the capital, obviously," Zautzes repeated. Rhavas only snorted;
that was too obvious even to need saying. The eparch went on, "I've told you
everything the dispatch told me. Past that, I would only be guessing."
"Guess, by all means," Rhavas said expansively. Zautzes' eyebrows rose and his
bulging eyes widened slightly. The prelate hardly ever offered invitations
like that. Rhavas didn't care what he usually did.
Today he would feast off the spun sugar of speculation if he couldn't bite
down on the meat of fact.
"As long as you know I
am guessing," Zautzes said, and Rhavas gave him an impatient nod. Screwing up
his face in thought, Zautzes continued, "After a defeat like this, not many
towns will want to open their gates to Stylianos. He'd have to flee for the
frontier, unless I miss my guess. Maybe the soldiers who guard against the
Khamorth nomads will keep their affection for him. It's a slim hope, but
probably the best one he has."
"What about the barbarians themselves?" Rhavas asked.
"What about 'em?" the eparch returned. "If the frontier troops stay loyal to
Maleinos, they'll keep the nomads out. And they'll probably keep them out even
if they don't. Why wouldn't they? Stylianos won't want anything like pandering
to the savages on his record."
"Yes, that's so. If he wins, he wouldn't want to win with barbarian backing.
And if he loses, he only makes his rebellion worse by inciting the Khamorth."
Rhavas remembered that conversation for a long time. Every word he said made
good logical sense. He almost always did. But what he reckoned logical and
what Stylianos and Maleinos would reckon logical were not precisely the same.
Just how far from the same they were would come out in short order.
Page 18
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* * *
Being the man he was, Rhavas did sometimes wish that Skopentzana boasted more
in the way of books.
The northern city had more than he'd expected when he came here, but not
enough to satisfy him. Of course, even Videssos the city hadn't had enough to
satisfy him. He sometimes thought all the books ever written wouldn't be
enough to satisfy him.
One way to solve that problem was to write a book of his own. If he set out
the precise relationship between Phos and Skotos and supported it with
quotations from the sacred scriptures and from earlier theologians, no one
else would need to tackle the job for years. Others had attempted it before
him; it was, after all, one of the fundamental issues facing the faith. But
none of those learned tomes was learned enough to satisfy him. He wanted his
work to be suitable not only for a generation alone but for all time.
He'd finished the manuscript. Despite the trouble he'd had tracking down some
of the more arcane references here in Skopentzana, he'd finally managed it.
But finishing a book was only the first step in getting it into other people's
hands. He had no trouble reading his spidery scrawl. As far as he could tell,
that made him a minority of one.
Skopentzana did not boast the swarm of scribes who worked in Videssos the
city. The capital also had swarms of secretaries and clerks and other
bureaucrats who needed things written but often lacked the time to do the
writing themselves. And Videssos the city had more people who could read than
any other four places in the Empire put together. Add all that up, and it
could support so many scribes.
Skopentzana couldn't.
The one Rhavas had chosen to work with was a middle-aged fellow named Digenis.
He peered shortsightedly at the prelate when Rhavas strode into his cramped
little shop. Only a shortsighted man could stay a scribe once he got into his
middle years. Men with normal vision whose sight lengthened lost the ability
to read the small scrawl of a manuscript.
"Good morning," Rhavas said.
Digenis brightened. "Ah! Good morning, very holy sir," he said, recognizing
Rhavas' voice where he'd had trouble knowing his face. "How are you today?"
"Well enough." Rhavas unbent enough to add, "Perhaps even a bit better than
that."
"I am glad to hear it," Digenis said. "Is this on account of the news from the
south, very holy sir, or do you also have other reasons?" He was as avid for
gossip as any other Videssian. He also had good connections; the news of
Maleinos' victory over Stylianos wasn't all through Skopentzana yet.
"I am certainly glad the news from the south is good," Rhavas replied. If he
had any other reasons, they were none of Digenis' business. "Can you give me
more news to make me happy? How is my book coming?"
"It's coming well, very holy sir," the scribe told him. "I do have to
interrupt it every now and then to take on some small project that will put
gold in my belt pouch, but I always return to it as soon as the other work is
done."
Rhavas made a discontented noise. He'd paid Digenis in the usual way for a
long work: half at the beginning, half when the book was done. That had been a
while ago now; of course the scribe would have gone through most of the first
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