by A. J. Demas
Dami nodded, making what looked like a determined effort to tamp down an expression of anguish. “I was afraid you might have a hard time. I … I wish I had been there. But you had your family.”
“I did. They were very good. Unruffled.” Varazda smiled. At some point he had ended up in Dami’s arms, in a loose but protective embrace. “They’re very sweet when they want to be. And they’ve seen me like that before.”
“Right. But as far as they knew, I was mixed up in whatever had happened to you on Pheme, which meant I was not to be trusted. I did wonder if it might have been partly that. But I didn’t want to ask. I thought you’d tell me if you wanted me to know.”
Varazda leaned his forehead against Dami’s, letting his eyes slip closed. He allowed himself a moment of feeling blissfully safe and not caring that he needed it. Then he straightened up, stepping out of Dami’s arms.
“I can’t go out wearing this,” he said, displaying the unbelted white tunic. “I’ll run upstairs and change.”
Walking to Themistokles’s studio to warn Ariston’s master about some nebulous threat to his life was not the way Varazda would have preferred to spend Dami’s last morning in Boukos. But they made it as pleasant as possible. Dami slung his arm around Varazda’s waist, and Varazda returned the gesture and got used to accommodating the rhythm of Dami’s uneven gait, swaying against him a little, and he could see in the little private smile that curved Dami’s lips how much that meant to him. It was such a simple thing.
“I hope to be able to come back in a month,” Dami said finally, the first of them to broach the subject. “If I would be welcome.”
“You know you would.”
He ducked his head in acknowledgement. “I might be able to stay longer then.”
“Yes? Good.”
Was it too soon to say, Stay forever? Yes, Varazda thought, it was too soon. Totalling up the days they had spent together, their acquaintance was still only two weeks old. Dami had only had one week to sample Varazda’s life in Boukos. It had been an eventful week, too, hardly representative.
“I will do my best not to have any family crises arise next time,” Varazda said.
“Oh, don’t trouble yourself on my account.”
“You are good in a crisis, it’s true.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Themistokles was alone in his studio when they arrived. He came to the door with a chisel in his hand and a fine coating of white powder in his sandy hair. Varazda had often seen Ariston come home in the same state.
“Ah, hello! Pharastes, isn’t it? You’ve just missed Tasos—I expect he’s been telling you about the upcoming dedication? He’s gone to the Palace of Art now to see to some last-minute preparations before tonight.”
“Actually, we came to speak to you,” said Varazda.
“Of course! Come in.”
They had barely got through the doorway when Ariston came rushing through it on their heels.
“Themistokles, sir,” he panted, “there’s—what in Psobos’s name are you two doing here?”
“More or less the same thing you were about to do, I think,” said Dami. “Warning Themistokles about the threat against him.”
“What?” Themistokles stared at each of them in turn. “Threat?”
“Yes,” said Ariston. “I’ve just heard about it from Leto.”
“Kallisto’s freedwoman?” said Themistokles. “But—what does she—”
Ariston leapt in. “One of Kallisto’s other lovers—um, um, you know she has other lovers, right?”
“Yes, yes.”
“One of them plans to attack you tonight at the dedication. They’re going to sabotage the mooring of the frieze so that it falls on you when you’re standing in front of it addressing the guests!”
Themistokles blinked at him in confusion for a moment. Dami and Varazda exchanged glances again.
“Who … did you say … is doing this?” Themistokles asked finally.
“It’s Lykanos Lykandros, sir.”
Themistokles gave a shouting laugh. “But that’s preposterous! Lykanos and I are old friends. He was my first mentor, my first … you know.”
“He’s jealous, sir, because of you and Kallisto.”
“Pfft! He’s not jealous—he was the one who introduced me to Kallisto in the first place, and gave me his blessing. Besides,” Themistokles added, his expression becoming briefly pained, “he knows I’m giving her up. I told him about it just the other day.”
Ariston shrugged hopelessly. “I don’t know, sir. I’m just telling you what Leto said. I think we’d better go back to the Palace of Letters and check all the panels, and then set a strict watch, don’t you think, Damiskos?”
Everyone looked at Dami. Themistokles said, “What?” again.
“I think that would be wise,” said Dami carefully. “But I do find it suspicious that Leto told a different story to you than she told to us.”
“She what?” said Ariston.
“She came to the house earlier this morning,” said Varazda. “Her story was that Lykanos was planning something at the dedication, but she didn’t know what it was.”
“She must have found out, after,” Ariston said impatiently. “Then she came to find me.”
“That may be it,” Dami agreed.
“Or,” said Themistokles, with a violence which startled Varazda, “she is making this whole thing up because she is a duplicitous slut who can’t stand to see me happy.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Varazda said, mildly, “How would that follow, if I may ask?”
“You mean why would she ‘warn’ me about a threat to my life, if she hates me? To ruin my moment of triumph, of course. My frieze is about to be unveiled in the Palace of Letters, I will announce my candidacy for councillor in the Basileon—it is going to be a important night for me, a great achievement. She can’t stand to see that. I’m sure that’s why she’s doing this. Lykanos and I are friends.”
Ariston’s face twisted with worry. “I still think we should stand guard by the frieze, sir. Just to make sure.”
“The Palace of Letters will be well guarded—the public watch will be there, I have been assured. And the guest list is set. You will be there, of course, Tasos, as my apprentice, but I want you to enjoy the evening—after all, your work has gone into this piece as well. You are due your share of the glory!” He put a firm hand on Ariston’s shoulder, smiling reassuringly. “It will be all right. I’m grateful to you all for warning me, but I’m not worried.”
Chapter 16
Ariston burst out the door into the street a moment after it had shut behind Varazda and Damiskos.
“What are we going to do?”
Dami and Varazda looked at one another. Varazda drew a deep breath.
“Well,” he said, “I was invited to dance at the dedication party, but I turned them down. I can send a message and ask if I can be last-minute addition to the entertainment after all.”
Ariston nodded. “Good, good. And Damiskos? We’ve got to have you there too, you’d be so useful. Perhaps you could sneak in through the—”
“Ariston,” said Varazda warningly. “Nobody is sneaking in through anywhere, especially not Damiskos.”
“I don’t need to,” Dami said easily. “I can come with Varazda.”
“Oh, as his bodyguard?” Ariston suggested eagerly.
“As my accompanist,” Varazda corrected him.
“That’s what I was thinking,” said Dami, smiling.
“All right, well, whatever,” said Ariston. “The main thing is—”
“I think,” Varazda interrupted him, “what you mean to say is, ‘Thank you, Damiskos, for being willing to help me, especially on the last evening of your vacation.’”
“Wait, what? You mean—you’re not going back to Pheme tomorrow?”
“I am, but … ”
“Holy God, Damiskos, you can’t leave! It’s not because of how we’ve—yeah, no, it is because how we
’ve treated you, me and Yazata, isn’t it? You know I’m sorry about that, don’t you? I’d do anything to make it up to you. I’ll talk to Yaza, too, I know he’s treated you like shit. I think he was just a bit scared of you. Don’t leave. I’d feel awful if you left.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Dami cut across Ariston’s babbling. “I do hope to come back soon.”
“Oh.” Ariston sagged with relief. “Oh, that’s good! I thought you meant … never mind. Anyway, I’m glad you’re here to help out tonight, and thank you. Gods. I’m going to go straight to the Palace of Letters after I’ve finished my work here, and keep watch, but the sight-lines are bad because of all the scaffolding, so we’ll definitely need all three of us patrolling. Find me when you arrive, all right?”
He ducked back inside Themistokles’s house, leaving Dami and Varazda alone in the street.
“You think this is a fool’s errand, don’t you?” said Dami, looking at the closed door.
“Absolutely. But I’m not sure I buy Themistokles’s explanation any more than Leto’s.”
Dami ran a hand along his jaw, his fingers making a little rasping sound on his stubble. “What’s the Palace of Letters, anyway?”
“It’s a library. It’s quite old and was beginning to look a bit shabby, so a group of citizens commissioned a new frieze and some other things. This is their private party to celebrate the completion of the work.”
“I see. I was imagining something a bit more spectacular, from the way Themistokles talked about it. I didn’t realize he was making this important announcement at a party in a library.”
“Well, the people involved are some of the most consequential in the city, one way or another. It’s a pretty reasonable place for him to announce his candidacy.”
“Why did you turn down the invitation to dance?”
Varazda looked away. “I wanted to spend the evening with you.”
Dami squeezed his arm. “Well, you will. So this thing about the frieze. You think it’s a trap?”
“It think it is a trap. But I’m not sure for whom, or why.”
“I suppose the only thing we can be sure of is that it’s not a trap for us, so we might as well do what we can to help.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Varazda agreed. “Though I would have preferred to spend your last night here differently.”
“Me too. Hey, I just thought of something. If Yazata has come round now, that leaves the goose as the only member of your family who doesn’t like me.”
“It does indeed. A good week’s work.”
They stopped at one of the wine shops where you could reliably find boys waiting to be sent on errands, and Varazda wrote out a message for the master of ceremonies, gave directions for its delivery, and asked for the answer to be brought to Saffron Alley.
They set off to walk home. Varazda scanned the street for a free chair for hire, but couldn’t see one.
“I wish I didn’t have to leave,” Dami said. “I mean—” He cleared his throat. “I wish I could stay longer.”
“So do I,” said Varazda. He slipped an arm around Dami’s waist again. From the other side of the street, he saw a couple of women turn to stare at them.
That had happened once or twice on their way to Themistokles’s studio, too, now that he thought about it. It hadn’t particularly registered, because Varazda was used to attracting a certain amount of attention. He thought about what Kallisto had said, or claimed that Ariston had said, about him being comfortable as himself. He wondered if that was true.
“Do you mind,” he asked Dami, “that people are looking at us?”
“Eh? Are they?”
Varazda arched an eyebrow at him. “Really, First Spear. I thought you soldiers were ever alert to your surroundings.”
“We’re not on a battlefield. I don’t know if you’ve noticed. But to your question—no, I don’t mind being envied.”
“You’re very sweet.”
“I don’t know if it’s that. To be honest, I just don’t give a fuck. I’ve never had a lover I’d have been ashamed to kiss in the street. I don’t now.” He looked Varazda in the eye. “Want me to prove it?”
Varazda’s hand flew to his mouth. “Oh, God,” he said from behind it, “no, I don’t. I—I’m sorry, but no.”
Dami laughed that growly, pit-of-the-stomach laugh. “Let me know, any time you change your mind. And,” he added more seriously, “if you don’t, that’s absolutely fine too. The street isn’t my favourite place to kiss.”
Varazda felt it was safe to take his hand away from his mouth. “Should I ask … what is?”
“Nah. I’d just have to say something dirty, and you’d start blushing again, and it would become a whole situation.”
“Ah.”
The message from the master of ceremonies arrived soon after Varazda and Dami made their leisurely way back to Saffron Alley. The master of ceremonies was delighted that Varazda would be available to dance after all, and reminded him that the party began at the twelfth hour and the theme of the entertainment was “The Goddesses of Letters.”
“That’s the other reason I turned them down the first time,” Varazda admitted, subsiding onto the divan beside Dami after he had paid the messenger. “I’m always happy to dress up, but ‘Goddesses of Letters?’ What is that? Do they dance with swords?”
“Sure,” said Dami comfortably. He had a cup of wine and one of Yazata’s saffron buns, and had put his feet up. “You can be the goddess of epic. Or—” He sipped his wine with a mischievous expression. “—the goddess of Zashian—”
“That’s blasphemous,” Varazda cut him off primly. “There are no Zashian goddesses of anything.”
“—sex manuals,” Dami finished.
“That’s blasphemous and in poor taste.”
He allowed himself a moment more of relaxing next to Dami before he pushed himself up off the divan.
“I’ll go change into a gown and we’ll practice,” he said. “Shall we?”
Dami looked up in surprise. “That—that sounds fun.”
It was fun. Varazda danced with his hair down, in his pale blue gown, barefoot, with bracelets on his wrists that chimed when he moved, inventing a more feminine version of his family’s ancestral dance that matched one of the Zashian tunes in Damiskos’s repertoire. Dami sat to play on a chair in the corner of Varazda’s practice room, and every time Varazda looked at him, he was smiling, either in concentration as he looked down at the lute while fingering a tricky passage, or glowing with delight as he watched Varazda dance.
When he had worked out a routine to his satisfaction, Varazda set down his swords, stretched, and shook back his hair. Dami sat with his forearms on his knees, cradling the lute and looking up at Varazda with a different expression now, an unsmiling intensity. Varazda stood for a moment with his hands clasped behind his head, mid-stretch. He remembered how it had gone after the last time they had been in his practice room together, when they sparred. Dami was thinking of it too, he could tell. Dami would never ask for anything—hadn’t asked for anything last time, in fact. Varazda wondered if he would even say “yes” now, obvious as his desire was.
And it was obvious, in spite of the strategic way he was sitting. Varazda was surprised to realize how well he had come to be able to read Dami’s moods.
He finished the stretch, bracelets chinking. “I haven’t shown you the whole house,” he said.
“Mm,” said Dami, like someone startled out of sleep. “Haven’t you?”
“No. There’s an upstairs. My bedroom is up there.”
“Oh yes.”
“It has a bed in it.”
“Mm.” Dami laid the lute down carefully. “I’m not sure I’m in the mood for a bed.”
“Oh. No?”
Dami got to his feet. “No. Does it have a wall?”
“A … oh.” Varazda’s hand went to his throat. His loins seemed to have become molten.
“If it doesn’t,” said Dami, because
he was Dami, “I’ll understand.”
“Yes,” said Varazda with conviction, “it does.”
If anyone in the house had stopped them between the door of Varazda’s practice room and the stairs, he didn’t know how he would have survived. But fortune was with them, and they got to the stairs and all the way up them uninterrupted. The door of Varazda’s room stood open. They were reaching for each other as they went through it, and Varazda kicked it closed. Then they were in each other’s arms, kissing as if their lives depended on it. It was some time before Varazda remembered to wriggle around and reach out to latch the door.
“The wall?” he gasped, tipping his head toward it.
He thought Dami might ask if he was sure this was what he wanted, but it must have been obvious that it was. Dami just looked into his eyes for a moment, and then, in the gentlest, most loving way imaginable, pinned him against the wall.
Varazda was liquid fire. Dami was everywhere, his hands and his mouth and his strong thigh between Varazda’s legs, leading Varazda out to the very edge of what he could bear and holding him there in safety. He pulled aside the wide neck of Varazda’s gown and did something halfway between kissing and biting Varazda’s shoulder, while his hand moved firmly over Varazda’s chest, cupping his pectoral muscle as if it were a soft breast. He gathered the skirt of the blue gown and slid it up Varazda’s thighs.
If Varazda could have strung words together then, he would have apologized, because he’d realized that under the gown he was still wearing a man’s undergarment, and for a moment he feared that might spoil Dami’s pleasure.
It didn’t seem to. Dami gave a warm chuckle as he pulled it off, and then he was kissing Varazda again as he freed his own erection. Then it was just skin on skin, the two of them rubbing against each other, the pleasure of it precarious and inelegant but so sweet in its reciprocity.
