Saffron Alley

by A. J. Demas

  “I wish I could promise you that won’t happen again,” he said.

  “No,” said Damiskos, “I quite see that you can’t. I may have overreacted.” He gestured to the table. “Do they—I’m not familiar with pet geese—do they eventually stop doing that, or am I going to have to learn to defend myself? I couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t approach her yourself.”

  “No, well, she doesn’t go for everyone like that, just people she doesn’t know in the house, especially if they’re near Remi. But I have been bitten a few too many times to approach her when she’s angry.”

  Dami nodded gravely. “I see. I will continue to be on my guard.”

  “I’m afraid that’s wisest.”

  He didn’t mention that this attack seemed as if it might have been premeditated. Perhaps he was imagining things.

  Chapter 6

  “One of the places I think he goes to meet his friends is a local bath-house,” Varazda said. “If we find him there, we can kill two birds with one stone and get a bath too.”

  Varazda got his sandals fastened. For the second day in a row, he was dressed in a plain tunic, without makeup or jewellery, and all he had done with his hair was to hastily braid it. He wondered again whether Tash had arranged all of this especially to ruin his time with Dami.

  “It’s not where you usually go?” Dami had got his own sandals on and was eying his cane by the front door, evidently trying to decide whether to take it or not.

  “No, I usually go to the Baths of Soukos. They’re a little further, but they have the best pool in the city. I’ve never been to this place Ariston goes. I assume it’s fashionable.”

  “Well,” said Dami, picking up his cane, “lead the way.”

  Out in the street, Varazda blew a kiss to Remi and one to Yazata, and each returned the gesture in their own way. Maia was gone from her stoop by this time, and the door to her house stood open. Dami was focussed on putting a comfortable distance between himself and Selene as quickly as possible.

  “We’re going to look for Tash!” Varazda called across the street.

  “Why?” Yazata half started up from the step, clutching his bowl of peas. “Where is he?”

  “Well, we don’t know. But Themistokles isn’t dead—”

  “Marzana told me. What happened?”

  “We don’t know,” Varazda repeated patiently. “But Tash doesn’t need to hide from the watch. And, obviously, he has some explaining to do.”

  Yazata sat back down. “I see.” He darted a worried glance at Dami, then looked down at the peas before adding, “God guard your coming and your going.”

  As soon as Varazda had known the date on which Dami would arrive, he had cleared his schedule as best he could for the days immediately following. It had meant cancelling one dance class, postponing a non-urgent piece of work for the Basileon, and finding someone to cover for him in the music shop, where he had been helping a few days a week since Gia’s husband got sick. All this meant that he had a free day, but it had come at some cost, and he was not pleased to have to use it searching for Tash.

  Dami was subdued and stern, and Varazda wasn’t sure how to cheer him up without flippancy. He was probably worried about slowing Varazda down, and Varazda wished he would say something about it, so he could be appropriately reassured. Though of course Varazda was walking slower than he would have if alone, whether it was strictly necessary or not.

  Tash’s usual bath-house was not at all what Varazda had expected. It was small and dingy, the slave at the door sleepily contemptuous.

  “Ariston? Which one? I know a dozen. Most of ’em foreigners. Aristons and Demoses and Nikos. That’ll be one obios each, sirs.”

  Varazda paid for both of them, and they went in. He was beginning to doubt he had the right place, but then he saw the sign painted on the wall of the small, dim entry hall. FOREIGNERS, it said, above an arrow pointing to the left, and for the benefit of the illiterate there were a couple of very poor drawings of men in trousers and hats.

  When they followed the arrow, they found themselves in a steamy hallway with a gutter running down the middle, flanked by rows of private bath cubicles.

  There was nothing wrong with it. The place was clean and respectable, if a little shabby, a small business catering to the city’s growing population of Zashians and Shandians who liked their privacy while they bathed. But it wasn’t the smart, fashionable establishment Varazda had imagined Tash frequenting, and he knew why. It made him sad.

  Dami was looking at him with one of his quiet, penetrating gazes. “The Baths of Soukos, where you go—they don’t have a section like this, do they?”

  Varazda shook his head. “They’re ordinary Pseuchaian public baths. But I’m not twenty-one.”

  They loitered a few minutes in the foreigners’ section, but there was no good place for waiting or meeting anyone there, and they drew suspicious glances from the few patrons who passed. There was no sign of Tash, and frankly it seemed unlikely that he would be there. It was obviously just a place to bathe, not to socialize.

  “Tash—Ariston—he’s not really a foreigner. He’s lived in Boukos since he was a child. He never wears Zashian clothes, doesn’t have any Zashian friends apart from Yazata and me. He’s given himself a Pseuchaian name. I know he doesn’t come here because he wants to bathe in private. He used to come to the Baths of Soukos with me until a couple of years ago, and then he told me he was going to some new place his friends had introduced him to.”

  Dami made a sympathetic face. “I’m glad you don’t. Come here, I mean.”

  They left the bath-house, under the suspicious eye of the doorman, and in the street outside Varazda was surprised to hear his name called—his real name, not the Pseuchaian version. He looked up to see his friend Shorab, a clerk of about his own age, hurrying down the street toward the bath-house.

  “Varazda, I wondered when I would run into you here,” he said, sounding delighted. “But I see you’re on your way out, so I can’t invite you for a drink. Maybe another time?”

  “Of course,” said Varazda, smiling. “My house is not far from here.”

  “Oh, really? Such a nice part of town!”

  Shorab smiled and nodded at Dami, but did not offer his name or give Varazda the chance to supply Dami’s. Shorab was still very Zashian, from his felt hat and silky beard to his manners. He spoke Pseuchaian scrupulously and correctly, as did everyone at the embassy. On formal occasions he wore a sword, a more modern, steel version of Varazda’s.

  “They’re not very good baths,” Shorab was saying, “but I’m not brave enough to face the Pseuchaian bath-houses, myself. Farhata used to try to talk me into it … ” For a moment his face fell, then he collected himself. “But he never succeeded. Well—I shall see you around soon, I’m sure. God guard your coming and your going.”

  “And yours,” said Varazda with a bow.

  Shorab went into the bath-house, and Varazda and Dami walked on down the street.

  “I’m sorry for not introducing you,” Varazda said, knowing it was not necessary but still feeling he should say it.

  Dami smiled. “I remember it took me a while to get used to the way Zashians do introductions—or don’t do introductions. I would meet people and tell them my name, and they’d look at me as if I’d made a rude noise and they were trying not to notice.”

  Varazda laughed. “Shorab is his name. I’ve no objection to telling you. He works at the embassy, as you might imagine. The other name he mentioned … Farhata. He was one of the ambassador’s aides, the one who was killed a month ago when the embassy was set on fire. He and Shorab were old friends.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Shorab has been very angry about how little justice has been done in that case.”

  Dami nodded and did not ask for details. Perhaps he already knew.

  They went next to a bakery in the square at the end of the street, in search of one of Tash’s former girlfriends with whom he seemed still t
o be friendly. They found her cutting squares of syrup-soaked cake behind the bakery counter.

  “I’ve no idea, haven’t seen him for ages,” she replied cheerfully when Varazda asked about Tash. “You’re his brother, right? Do you know about his new girl?”

  “No, not really,” said Varazda warily. He wasn’t sure how much old girlfriends and new girlfriends were supposed to mix, and whether this was a fishing expedition on her part, or an offer to share information, or what.

  “Oh, I don’t know anything either—he’s been very secretive lately—but I think she might work in Temple Walk. I mean,” she added, giggling, “as somebody’s maid or something.”

  “Right,” said Varazda, keeping his eyebrows from rising with an effort. “Thanks.”

  “Tell him to come visit when you see him—we all miss him. Would you like some cake?” She smiled winningly at Dami, who, Varazda realized, had been eyeing the cake throughout their conversation.

  “We’d love some,” Dami said promptly. “Oh, I mean—can we spare the time?” He looked doubtfully at Varazda.

  “We can spare the time,” said Varazda.

  “My treat.” Dami dug in the wallet on his belt for some coins.

  Tash’s ex-girlfriend put two generous slices onto a plate and set them on the counter. She took Dami’s money and walked back to put it in the cash box, affording them a view of her belly, round as a melon under her dress.

  “Oh,” she said suddenly, looking down at herself. “I hope you’re not thinking—” She laughed. “This isn’t Tash’s!”

  Varazda managed to maintain a neutral expression, and Dami stuffed a large chunk of cake into his mouth, presumably to stop himself saying, “Of course not!”

  Perhaps she’d just forgotten—or perhaps she had never known. Either way it made Varazda sad, in rather the same way as the foreigners’ section of the bath.

  Dami was halfway through his square of cake by this time, so Varazda hurried to catch up. It was delicious, definitely an improvement on the bath-house.

  “Where to now?” Dami asked when they emerged in the street, full of cake and somewhat sticky-fingered.

  “There’s a wine shop Ariston frequents—it belongs to the family of one of his friends, one of his more reliable friends. We should ask in there.”

  “Lead the way.”

  The shop, at the sign of the laurel leaf in the Vintners’ District, was probably their best bet for finding Tash—the bakery had been a long shot but conveniently close—and it was also in a scenic part of the city. Varazda pointed out the landmarks to Dami as they passed.

  “That’s the Sanctuary of Terza, down there.” A plain white building stood at the foot of a long flight of shallow steps. “You can get there from the other side too, off New Philadion Street.” Without the stairs. He didn’t say that.

  He realized he didn’t know how often worshippers of Terza had to visit their temple. Perhaps he should have asked Marzana’s son about that, at the same time as he had asked about where they put their portable shrines.

  “That’s good to know. I usually go to the Bread Day ceremonies,” Dami said.

  “I realize you can’t tell me about those,” said Varazda with a smile.

  “Oh, no, I can. And I will, if you’re interested. Though it’s very … I don’t know how interesting it is, from the outside.”

  “I’m sure I can manage to stay awake,” said Varazda lightly. “Since it’s an important part of your life.”

  “It is,” Dami said slowly, and left it at that.

  They reached the Vintners’ District, with its wine shops and warehouses and heady, grapey aroma, and found the sign of the laurel. It was a small shop on a corner, its shutters gleaming with a fresh coat of sky-blue paint, vines cascading down above the door. The morning was pretty far gone by this time, and the shop was open, though empty of customers. Tash’s friend Stratos was sweeping the doorstep with an apron on. He looked up at their approach.

  “Pharastes, hello! What can I get you?” His glance flicked to Dami, and his eyes widened a little, then his smile widened to match.

  “We’re looking for Ariston, actually. Have you seen him today?”

  “Who? Oh, Tasos! Shit, I forgot we’re supposed to call him Ariston now. Yeah. I mean no. I haven’t seen him, but Dad said he came by looking for me while I was out getting pastries. We’ve got fresh pastries, by the way—what kind would you like? The cheese ones are really good with the Kastian red we’ve got right now.”

  If the pastries were still fresh, that meant Tash had been here not that long ago.

  “Can we speak to your father, please? We need to find out where Ariston went.”

  “The Kastian red is really good too, sir.”

  “Stratos. Can we speak to your father, please.”

  “Sure thing, sir.”

  Stratos dove back inside the shop, his broom clattering to the floor. He was a long time coming back. Varazda began to think that they might as well have ordered wine at this point. There were no seats in front of the shop, and he didn’t like to make Dami stand for so long. He reminded himself that Dami was tough—almost as tough as he looked—and would be furiously embarrassed if he knew Varazda was worrying about him like this.

  Finally Stratos returned, followed by his father, wiping his hands on his own apron.

  “This is Tasos’s friend Pharastes.” Stratos waved an arm, presenting Varazda.

  “Ah yes,” said Stratos’s father. “We have met, I believe. Young Tasos was here early this morning.”

  So apparently the pastries were not all that fresh. He should have known.

  “Do you know where he was going?” Varazda asked. “It is somewhat urgent that we find him.”

  “I couldn’t say, no. He wanted to see Stratos, said something about—oh! He said something about the theatre.” Stratos’s father looked pleased with himself. “Perhaps he wanted Stratos to come to the theatre with him, I couldn’t say. He seemed in a rush, though. Unkempt. Not like him,” he conceded. “I’m sorry I can’t help you more.”

  “No, that’s very helpful, thank you.”

  Stratos, who had gone back inside the shop again, had returned by this time with two of the not-exactly-fresh cheese pastries in a dish, a wine jug under his arm, and a couple of cups dangling from his fingers. To his obvious chagrin, his father handed the pastries over to Varazda and Dami for free, and did not press them to sit down and drink.

  They walked away down Little Bridge Street.

  “Not as good as that cake,” Dami remarked, scrutinizing his half-eaten pastry. “But it would probably be better with a cup of Kastian red. Are we headed to the theatre?”

  “If you’re up for it. It is a longish walk.”

  “I’m prepared.” Dami flourished his cane with a wry grin.

  Varazda smiled gently back at him. He could think of a variety of things to say, but a friendly nothing seemed the best of all.

  They pressed on to the Theatre of Polykratos, a half-circle of pink stone set into the side of a hill on the edge of town, in what had until a few years ago been a wooded park. The theatre was unfinished; the niches in the wall behind the stage stood empty, and the imported pink stone had a raw, unworn look to it. But plays were already being staged here. Varazda had gone with some friends to see a really biting satire of Boukossian politics, back in the spring.

  There was a rehearsal underway when they arrived at the top steps. Actors without costumes or masks were declaiming their lines from the stage.

  “To the palace! The vizier must be stopped!”

  Two of the actors rushed in opposite directions at the same moment, turned in confusion, rushed the other way, collided with perfect timing, and tumbled to the stage.

  Dami chuckled, and Varazda glanced at him in surprise. He wasn’t sure what he had expected Dami’s taste in theatre to be, but somehow he hadn’t imagined him laughing at a straightforward farce. It was a pleasant surprise, though. Varazda took a guilty pleasure in
low comedy himself.

  Besides the actors, there were only a few people in the theatre, mostly workers sweeping fallen leaves from the ranks of marble seats. From where Dami and Varazda stood, they had a good view of the whole place, and Tash was nowhere to be seen.

  “It was a long shot,” Varazda said gloomily. “He may not have come here at all if he couldn’t get Stratos to come with him.”

  “What would they have come here for, do you think? When there’s no performance on. Is he friends with one of the actors?”

  “Not that I know of, but … ah! He does have a friend who works in the park. He’s the head gardener. An old man—I’ve no idea how Ariston comes to know him.”

  This meant wandering the park in search of the gardener’s house, which was of course well hidden to avoid detracting from the beauty of the carefully maintained wilderness. It was in fact very beautiful: a style of garden that was popular in Boukos but also felt very Zashian. They talked about that as they walked. Dami seemed to have an interest in gardening, and knew more about the varieties of plants and trees than Varazda.

  Then they reached the head gardener’s cottage, and there was the old man himself, sitting on a bench outside his door, and beside him, hunched over a wine-cup, in the clothes he’d had on last night, was Tash. Relief made Varazda feel a surge of affection for him.

  Luckily, Varazda and Dami came around the corner of the cottage, so they were quite close when Tash looked up and saw them. He made no more than a token attempt to rise from the bench.

  “Hello,” said the gardener, eyeing them speculatively. He was white-haired and weatherbeaten, but still sturdy, his shoulders broad, his hands strong. “Can I help you?”

  “It’s my housemate Pharastes,” Tash supplied sullenly, before Varazda could speak. “And his—whatever.” He flapped an unenthusiastic hand at Dami. “They’ve probably been looking for me.”