Saffron Alley

by A. J. Demas

“Her name is Kallisto,” Ariston went on. “She’s … she’s Themistokles’s mistress.”

  “I see,” said Varazda neutrally. “And you think she might have had reason to wish Themistokles harm.”

  “Well, I don’t—I mean, I hope not. I just … I can’t think of any other explanation. That’s why I went looking for her yesterday. But she wasn’t in the city. I went to the theatre—she sings in the chorus there, and the groundskeeper is a friend of hers, used to belong to the same household, and he told me she was in the country visiting their patron and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. I mean today.”

  “And today, where will she be?”

  “I don’t know,” Ariston admitted. “I was just planning—I mean, I was hoping that we could go to her house and see if she’s there, or if we can find out where she’s gone for the festival.”

  Varazda sighed. “We’d better hope it’s somewhere we can get into. And we’d better leave now, if we want to have any hope of catching her at home.”

  He got up and began gathering dishes. “You’ll be all right here on your own with Remi, Yaza?”

  “What? Oh, yes, of course. You’re going to—to call on someone’s mistress?”

  Varazda patted Yazata’s shoulder. “I’ll explain later.”

  Dami looked adorable with his mantle pulled up over his head. It was a dark, forest-green mantle that complemented his eyes, making them look more green than brown. He tucked his arm through Varazda’s as they headed out the door with Ariston trailing behind them, trying to get his own mantle to stay over his head.

  Somehow—probably because he was putting a lot of thought into it—Dami struck what Varazda thought was exactly the right note for a man going out on the Asteria. He couldn’t have imitated a woman if he had tried; everything about his physical presence was masculine. But he could be quiet and rather sternly meek, eyes downcast, following a half-step behind Varazda as if acting upon orders. He had brought his cane and leaned on it when necessary rather than on Varazda’s arm.

  They turned out of Saffron Alley into Fountain Street and met a group of women in short tunics, bare-legged and with their hair down, on their way to a rite or a procession, with ornamental spears and sistra in their hands.

  “Wow,” said Ariston, with what Varazda thought was unnecessary emphasis, when they had passed the women. “I’d heard you could see things like that on the Asteria, but still—just, wow. It’s wasted on you.” He rolled his eyes at Varazda, and then Varazda saw him glance at Dami.

  Dami evidently saw it too. “It’s not wasted on me,” he said mildly. “Though I’m aware it’s not intended for me, either.”

  “Right, yeah. I just wondered. I mean I thought maybe you only had eyes for Varazda or whatever.” Clearly Ariston wanted to talk about this, and was going at it in his usual awkward way. Varazda wished himself elsewhere, or dead, or both.

  “Ariston,” said Dami, “you love this woman Kallisto enough to try to take on a murder charge for her, and you’re still noticing other women’s legs. Though, you know, if she reciprocates your love, you should probably stop mentioning them.”

  “Yeah. Right, yeah.” Ariston looked slightly flummoxed. “I didn’t mean—that. I just meant, you know, because Varazda’s a man. I thought maybe you didn’t like women.”

  Dami gave Varazda’s arm a discreet little squeeze. He didn’t say, “Varazda’s not a man.” He must have realized you couldn’t say that to Ariston, because if Varazda wasn’t a man, perhaps Ariston wasn’t a man either. And Ariston was a man.

  Instead Dami just said, “I like a lot of things.” He nudged Varazda. “Do you remember me saying that to you before?” he asked in an undertone.

  Varazda did remember that. Oh, he remembered it. He thought about it all the time, worried about what it meant for the two of them, because he knew he didn’t like a lot of things.

  Temple Walk was very quiet on the morning of the Asteria. It was probably always quiet in the mornings; Varazda never came here. It was the street of the city’s most exclusive courtesans, who sold refinement and conversation as much as—often instead of—sex. To tell the truth, Varazda avoided the place more or less on purpose. The whole thing hit a little close to home.

  It was a very pretty street, though, with its elegant frescoes and potted fruit trees, culminating in the pink-and-white confection that was the Temple of Orante. Ariston seemed to have decided that Dami needed a guided tour, so he was explaining the hierarchy and nomenclature of the different houses, detailing their specialties as if he had visited them all. He hadn’t, Varazda knew for a fact; he didn’t have the money, for one thing, or the time, for another.

  “Of course, they could open today,” Ariston explained. “Most of the houses are owned by women. But then most of their clients have to stay home, so what would be the point?”

  “They could have women clients,” Dami pointed out reasonably.

  “Oooh, I hadn’t thought of that. Do you think so?”

  “I think it would be none of our business.”

  “Yeah, no. Obviously. You’re right.”

  Dami was being a very good sport about all this, treading a fine line between humouring Ariston and encouraging him, and between offending Varazda by being too interested in the courtesans and embarrassing him by insisting too much on his disinterest. He made it look effortless, but Varazda suspected that was like the way he compensated for his ruined knee: a lot more work than it looked. Varazda wished it wasn’t necessary.

  “Kallisto’s house is the last one on the right,” Ariston said, pointing. “With the sea-blue shutters. She’s kept the name of the previous owner, but it’s all hers now.” He sounded proud.

  The house, which was at the end of the street nearest the temple, had a pair of gracefully posed swans carved in high relief on either side of the door and the name Kykne painted above the lintel.

  “Themistokles designed those.” Ariston pointed to the swans. He still sounded proud. “But I carved them, actually.”

  “Really?” Dami leaned in to inspect one, drawing Varazda with him. “They’re great! Aren’t they, darling?”

  “They are beautiful,” Varazda agreed, not really looking at the swans. Dami had called him “darling” again, this time in public.

  “Thanks,” said Ariston. “That was how we, you know … how Kallisto and I met.”

  He squared his shoulders and reached up to knock on the door. Varazda stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  “I think that’s my job today. You concentrate on keep your eyes demurely on the ground.”

  “Oh, right.” Ariston shuffled back, tugging his mantle back up over his head.

  Varazda knocked twice before the door was answered by a slender girl of about Ariston’s age, in a modest white gown, with her damp blonde hair pulled over one shoulder and a comb in her hand. Behind her, for only a moment but very clearly, Varazda caught sight of a man he knew—the spice merchant, in fact, in whose house he was engaged to dance the day after tomorrow. The man had a distinctive square jaw and steel-grey hair. He ducked out of sight. It was an interesting coincidence, and Varazda wondered if he might make something of it.

  “Oh, hello, Ariston!” the girl trilled. “I mean,” she corrected herself with a giggly attempt at gravity, looking up at Varazda, “greetings, Sister. Blessings of the Asteria and all that. Thanks awfully for bringing Ariston by! And—” Here she looked Dami rather baldly up and down, paused on the cane, and settled for an unenthusiastic, “Hello.”

  Varazda decided that he hated her.

  “Hello, Leto,” said Ariston without much more enthusiasm. “Is Kallisto in?”

  Varazda was so busy being relieved that this girl was not Kallisto that he almost forgot to feel disappointed when she said, “I’m afraid you just missed her. She’s gone out.”

  “What a shame,” said Varazda. “We had hoped to talk with her. Do you expect her back soon?”

  “I couldn’t say, I’m sure.”

  �
��You don’t know where she’s gone?”

  Leto appeared to weigh whether or not to tell them. She shrugged. “To dance at the Palace of Art? I’m not sure. Will you come in?” She stepped back from the doorway, and gestured with her comb. “We’ve got some nice Kastian wine.”

  “It’s very kind of you,” said Varazda, “but I’m afraid we have no time to stop.”

  “Oh, well.” She looked speculatively at Ariston a moment longer, as if she might have been considering asking Varazda to leave him with her. On the Asteria it would not have been an inappropriate request from one woman to another. But she appeared to think better of it, shrugged, and shut the door in their faces.

  “Well,” said Dami as they turned away from the door, obviously suppressing laughter. “She was charming.”

  “Oh, I can’t stand her,” said Ariston passionately. “She’s always like that. If you’re not swooning and drooling over her she’s got no use for you. She’s Kallisto’s freedwoman.”

  “So,” said Varazda, bringing them back to business. “The Palace of Art. Do you think that’s true?”

  “Oh, yes, I expect so,” said Ariston. “I know she does like dancing. That’s Eudia’s,” he added to Dami, pointing out a house on the opposite side of the street. “It’s too bad we can’t go in. There are some amazing frescos in the atrium.”

  “I’ve seen them,” said Dami, “actually.”

  “Oh, you have? Gosh.” Ariston looked distinctly as if he wanted to ask Damiskos more about that, and then thought better of it. Possibly because Varazda was looking daggers at him. Varazda himself wasn’t sure.

  He wanted very much not to care. He wanted to be able to laugh and raise an eyebrow and say something arch, calling Dami “First Spear.” Instead he found himself feeling painfully awkward: too tall, too angular in his flashy gown and heirloom earrings. How absurd, he chastised himself.

  They walked to the Palace of Art, Ariston and Varazda on either side of Damiskos, Ariston playing tour guide the entire time, pointing out the sights importantly and making sedately appreciative comments about the women they passed. Varazda thought Ariston would have tried to take Dami’s other arm if it hadn’t been for the cane.

  Finally, apparently deciding that he had talked enough and should encourage Dami to talk about himself, Ariston asked earnestly, “So how did you injure your leg?”

  “Ariston … ” Varazda said in a warning tone. Or what he wished were a warning tone—in fact it just sounded angry.

  “It’s all right,” said Dami mildly. “I get asked that all the time.”

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry,” Ariston gabbled. “I didn’t think.”

  “It’s all right,” said Dami again. “I just meant that because I get asked often, I have an answer prepared. I was injured in a campaign on the Deshan Coast. I was captured by a hostile warlord and had my legs broken as punishment for the trouble we’d caused him. The other one healed better.”

  Ariston looked sick, all the colour draining from his face. “Shit. I’m—I’m sorry. Uh. Wow. Yeah.” He had stopped in the middle of the street, and his mantle had fallen back onto his shoulders. He gave Varazda a beseeching look as if perhaps hoping he would say it wasn’t true. “You, uh. You tell people that?”

  Dami gave a low, gentle laugh. “No,” he admitted. “Usually I don’t. I say I was injured on campaign but not in battle, and I leave it at that. But you are Varazda’s brother, and I felt I owed you the truth.”

  “Oh. Uh. Thanks.” Ariston looked a little stunned.

  Varazda reached out and pulled Ariston’s mantle back up. “Let’s walk. We don’t want to miss Kallisto.”

  “Right. Right.” After they had walked a little further, Ariston undisguisedly staring at Dami’s lame leg, he said, “Well, you know my thing, I guess.”

  “Your thing?”

  “My thing that I don’t like to talk to people about?”

  Dami nodded crisply. “Yes, I know that thing.”

  “Right,” said Ariston. “Well. Good.”

  “Ariston,” said Dami, “I have been thinking. About what you overheard Kallisto say. What is her specialty? Does she have one?”

  “Specialty?”

  “Yes, in the sense of … ” His gaze flicked to Varazda, and he seemed to revise what he had been about to say. “What she does for her clients.”

  “Oh, I … I don’t think so. That is, I don’t know. I only know about some of the others because people talk about them,” Ariston admitted reluctantly. “You know. Why?”

  “Hm. No, just thinking.”

  Varazda wasn’t quite sure he followed that. From the look on Ariston’s face, he hadn’t done much better.

  “Never mind,” said Dami cheerfully, smiling at both of them. “On to the Palace of Art.”

  Chapter 10

  The Palace of Art was a beautiful building, modern but built in an ancient style, with fat red-painted columns across the front and a flight of shallow steps leading up to the porch. Its name always amused Varazda. Only in a democracy like Boukos would anyone think to call such a welcoming building, wide open to the public every day of the year and virtually unguarded, a “palace.”

  Today garlands of late-summer flowers had been looped between the red columns, and greenery strewed down the steps. The dancing was well underway when Varazda, Dami, and Ariston arrived. It was all women, of course, with a few men seated demurely on the steps of the Palace of Art, amateurishly minding a group of children. The women were whirling and stamping in the wide, sunlit square, to the accompaniment of loud drums and horns. It was a dance that Varazda knew.

  “You want to join them, don’t you, babe?” Dami leaned toward Varazda to whisper.

  “That’s not what we’re here for,” said Varazda repressively. “And I don’t recall giving you permission to call me ‘babe.’”

  “You don’t?” Dami’s eyes were shining with mischief now. This was a side of him that Varazda adored, one that didn’t seem to come out very often. Perhaps if he were happier it would.

  “There she is!” Ariston was pointing into the crowd of whirling women. “Kallisto,” he clarified, giving them a look. They had been too obviously distracted. “There. Do you see her?”

  Varazda looked out at the dancers. Even if he’d known what Kallisto looked like, it was hard to spot anyone in the fast-moving crowd.

  “I’ll have to take your word for it,” he said. “As I recall, this dance can go on for a long time. Why don’t we wait with the men and children.”

  “Why don’t Ariston and I wait with the men and children,” Dami amended, “and you dance.”

  “You do look like you want to,” Ariston said assessingly. “Go on.”

  “Ariston gets to watch his girlfriend dance,” Dami said, looking Varazda in the eye, the mischief tempered with warm affection. “I want to watch mine.”

  Varazda nodded, grinning. She, Dami’s girlfriend, tossed the loose end of her mantle over her shoulder and set off toward the dance.

  “Kallisto’s not my girlfriend,” she heard Ariston saying wistfully behind her. She was too far away to hear Dami’s reply.

  Dancing among women as a woman was not something Varazda got to do often, and there was something both familiar and foreign about it. It was a simple round dance: in, out, spin, clap, stamp, rather martial and masculine, and then some very feminine shimmies and twists.

  Some of Varazda’s friends were there and waved to her across the circle. She curled her fingers in the gesture known as “rose-hands” in the court dances of Gudul, and spun in unison with the other women. She rode the tide of exhilaration raised by the communal dance, the easy flow of it, the mixture of masculine and feminine that might have been made for her, but was really a high mystery of the Boukossian women’s festival. She looked for Dami on the benches, and there he was, watching her.

  And this suddenly was new, and disconcerting, and Varazda almost missed a turn in the dance. She had never actually danced for Dami. On the b
each at Laothalia, at a different festival whose name she had shamefully forgotten, she had danced before an audience that included Dami, and Dami had watched her practice in the slave’s yard before that. But neither time had it been intended for him. Nor was it now, if Varazda was honest. She’d wanted to join the dance because it was something she always did at the Asteria, part of her enjoyment of the festival—because she dressed as a woman often enough, but it was not often that she felt like a woman down to the marrow of her bones like this. Besides, her friends were here and would expect to see her dance.

  Dami deserved to see Varazda dance for him.

  The musicians began a new tune. This one was a dance for pairs, and some of the women began dancing with each other while others twirled alone. A few went to draw in men from the sidelines. Varazda saw Ariston dancing awkwardly with a tall, dark woman who looked as if she could have picked him up and slung him over her shoulder if she’d wanted to. Ariston wasn’t much of a dancer. Varazda hoped he had not lost sight of Kallisto in his concentration on the steps.

  Dami sat by himself on the bench in front of the Palace of Art. When Varazda looked at him, he smiled. He probably didn’t mean for it to look wistful.

  She walked through the dance toward him, intending at first to sit down by his side. But if he had asked, “Don’t you want to go on dancing?” she would not have been able to answer honestly, “No.” She held out her hands as she approached.

  He looked up questioningly.

  “I thought you might like a dance,” she said.

  It took him only a moment to work out what she had in mind. As he allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, a grin slowly dawned on his face.

  She pulled him forward a few steps away from the bench, so that she could move around him. She raised her hands and swayed her hips, provocatively close. She reached out and brushed the draped fold of his mantle back slightly from his face, sliding the fabric between her fingers.

  She toyed with the end of his mantle; she spun around him, laying her wrist over his shoulder and trailing her hand across his back. She took his hand and twirled and shimmied at the end of his outstretched arm. He remained more or less fixed in place the whole time, letting Varazda dance around him as if he were a cult statue. From his grin, he loved every moment of it.