Phos.
From a small silhouette in the bright but distant doorway, Tribo grew to man-size as he sauntered up the aisle toward the throne. He slowed every so often to exchange a smile or a couple of words with someone he knew, thereby largely defeating the intimidation built into that walk.
Krispos had expected nothing less; Khatrishers seemed born to subvert any existing order. Even their nation was less than three centuries old, born when Khamorth nomads from the plains of Pardraya overran what had been Videssian provinces. To some degree, they aped the Empire these days, but their ways remained looser than those that were in good form among Videssians.
Tribo paused the prescribed distance from the imperial throne, sinking down to his knees and then to his belly in full proskynesis: some Videssian rituals could not be scanted. As the envoy remained with his forehead pressed against the polished marble of the floor, Krispos tapped the left arm of the throne. With a squeal of gears, it rose several feet in the air. The marvel was calculated to overawe barbarians. From his new height, Krispos said, "You may rise, Tribo of Khatrish."
"Thank you, your Majesty." Like most of his folk, the ambassador spoke Videssian with a slight lisping accent. In Videssian robes, he could have passed for an imperial but for his beard, which was longer and more unkempt than even a priest would wear. The khagans of Khatrish encouraged that style among their upper classes, to remind them of the nomad raiders from whom they had sprung. Tribo was also un-Videssian in his lack of concern for the imperial dignity. Cocking his head to one side, he remarked, "I think your chair needs oiling, your Majesty."
"You may be right," Krispos admitted with a sigh. He tapped the arm of the throne again. With more metallic squeaks, servitors behind the courtroom wall returned him to his former place.
Tribo did not quite smirk, but the expression he assumed shouted that he would have, in any other company. He definitely was less than overawed. Krispos wondered if that meant he couldn't be reckoned a barbarian. Perhaps so: Khatrish's usages were not those of Videssos, but they had their own kind of understated sophistication.
All that was by the way—though Krispos did make a mental note that he need not put the crew of musclemen behind the wall next time he granted Tribo a formal audience. The Avtokrator said, "Shall we to business, then?"
"By all means, your Majesty." Tribo was not rude, certainly not by his own people's standards and not really by the Empire's. either. He just had a hard time taking seriously the elaborate ceremonial in which Videssos delighted. The moment matters turned substantive, his half-lazy, half-insolent manner dropped away like a discarded cloak.
As Avtokrator, Krispos had the privilege of speaking first: "I am not pleased that your master the khagan Nobad son of Gumush has permitted herders from Khatrish to come with their flocks into territory rightfully Videssian, and to drive our farmers away from the lands near the border. I have written to him twice about this matter, with no improvement. Now I bring it to your attention."
"I shall convey your concern to his mighty Highness," Tribo promised. "He in turn complains that the recently announced Videssian tariff on amber is outrageously high and is being collected with overharsh rigor."
"The second point may perhaps concern him more than the first," Krispos said. Amber from Khatrish was a monopoly of the khagan's; his profits on its sale to Videssos helped fatten his treasury. The tariff let the Empire profit, too. Krispos had also beefed up customs patrols to discourage smuggling. In his younger days, he'd been to Opsikion near the border with Khatrish and seen amber smugglers in action. The firsthand knowledge helped combat them.
Tribo assumed an expression of outraged innocence. "The khagan Nobad son of Gumush wonders at the justice of a sovereign who seeks lower tolls from
From a small silhouette in the bright but distant doorway, Tribo grew to man-size as he sauntered up the aisle toward the throne. He slowed every so often to exchange a smile or a couple of words with someone he knew, thereby largely defeating the intimidation built into that walk.
Krispos had expected nothing less; Khatrishers seemed born to subvert any existing order. Even their nation was less than three centuries old, born when Khamorth nomads from the plains of Pardraya overran what had been Videssian provinces. To some degree, they aped the Empire these days, but their ways remained looser than those that were in good form among Videssians.
Tribo paused the prescribed distance from the imperial throne, sinking down to his knees and then to his belly in full proskynesis: some Videssian rituals could not be scanted. As the envoy remained with his forehead pressed against the polished marble of the floor, Krispos tapped the left arm of the throne. With a squeal of gears, it rose several feet in the air. The marvel was calculated to overawe barbarians. From his new height, Krispos said, "You may rise, Tribo of Khatrish."
"Thank you, your Majesty." Like most of his folk, the ambassador spoke Videssian with a slight lisping accent. In Videssian robes, he could have passed for an imperial but for his beard, which was longer and more unkempt than even a priest would wear. The khagans of Khatrish encouraged that style among their upper classes, to remind them of the nomad raiders from whom they had sprung. Tribo was also un-Videssian in his lack of concern for the imperial dignity. Cocking his head to one side, he remarked, "I think your chair needs oiling, your Majesty."
"You may be right," Krispos admitted with a sigh. He tapped the arm of the throne again. With more metallic squeaks, servitors behind the courtroom wall returned him to his former place.
Tribo did not quite smirk, but the expression he assumed shouted that he would have, in any other company. He definitely was less than overawed. Krispos wondered if that meant he couldn't be reckoned a barbarian. Perhaps so: Khatrish's usages were not those of Videssos, but they had their own kind of understated sophistication.
All that was by the way—though Krispos did make a mental note that he need not put the crew of musclemen behind the wall next time he granted Tribo a formal audience. The Avtokrator said, "Shall we to business, then?"
"By all means, your Majesty." Tribo was not rude, certainly not by his own people's standards and not really by the Empire's. either. He just had a hard time taking seriously the elaborate ceremonial in which Videssos delighted. The moment matters turned substantive, his half-lazy, half-insolent manner dropped away like a discarded cloak.
As Avtokrator, Krispos had the privilege of speaking first: "I am not pleased that your master the khagan Nobad son of Gumush has permitted herders from Khatrish to come with their flocks into territory rightfully Videssian, and to drive our farmers away from the lands near the border. I have written to him twice about this matter, with no improvement. Now I bring it to your attention."
"I shall convey your concern to his mighty Highness," Tribo promised. "He in turn complains that the recently announced Videssian tariff on amber is outrageously high and is being collected with overharsh rigor."
"The second point may perhaps concern him more than the first," Krispos said. Amber from Khatrish was a monopoly of the khagan's; his profits on its sale to Videssos helped fatten his treasury. The tariff let the Empire profit, too. Krispos had also beefed up customs patrols to discourage smuggling. In his younger days, he'd been to Opsikion near the border with Khatrish and seen amber smugglers in action. The firsthand knowledge helped combat them.
Tribo assumed an expression of outraged innocence. "The khagan Nobad son of Gumush wonders at the justice of a sovereign who seeks lower tolls from
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