by A. J. Demas
“Oh, for the love of God,” Varazda grumbled. “He’s going to see his parents, who have asked him to come.”
“It’s not anything—“ Ari started.
“Probably not, but they don’t say,” Varazda cut him off. “Anything else?”
Ari wrinkled his nose discontentedly. “Well, remember what I said before, that’s all.”
“Thank you,” said Varazda crisply.
Dami closed the letter and set it on the table, then got to his feet. He looked out through the door to the yard.
“The rain’s stopped,” he observed. He looked at Varazda. “Come outside with me a moment.”
Varazda followed him out into the yard, a space almost entirely transformed in the time Dami had been living with them. Ari’s half-finished carved fish and the newly-laid paving stones glistened with rainwater.
“I’m sorry about this,” Dami said, looking out at the yard rather than at Varazda.
“Don’t be. You were always going to have to go back to Pheme. And if your parents need you … ”
Dami looked Varazda in the eye. “Should I give up the lease of my apartment in Pheme?”
And there it was.
“Yes,” said Varazda. He could feel his heart beating faster.
Dami nodded. “All right,” he said, his tone still grave, still the old Damiskos. “I will.”
They stood a moment longer in the wet yard, looking at one another, and it was a strange, weighted moment. Varazda thought he understood. The letter from Dami’s parents had forced his hand, but it had also brought his old life in Pheme back into view, and it must not have felt to him like the time, soiled and sullied as the moment was, for passionate declarations. In a way, Varazda agreed with him.
Varazda smiled. “Good.”
Dami smiled too, although it was still that old, sad smile. He drew a breath. “Last night was really something.”
Varazda laughed a little unsteadily. “It was, wasn’t it?”
“You’re all right?”
“I? I’m not the one who—who—”
“Oh, honey, you didn’t hurt me. You did a beautiful job.”
“I’m glad. I … borrowed a copy of The Three Gardens from Babak and studied the, um … But there were some hard words, so I couldn’t get much out of the text.” He had been learning to read Zashian a little in the past month, but the Cinnamon Grove was still largely beyond him.
Finally Dami laughed, in the easy way that made Varazda feel pleased with himself. “You were perfect,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you felt all right about it, after. I know I passed out pretty quickly. Which I try not to do, if I think you might need me.”
If he thought Varazda might need him to hold and gentle him, to bring him back to a place and time of safety. That was what he meant. And to tell the truth, Varazda didn’t always need that, by any means, but last night it wouldn’t have been unwelcome.
“It was your birthday,” said Varazda with a smile. “You are entitled to put yourself first for once.”
Dami laid his hand on Varazda’s hip and drew him into a warm, gentle embrace. Varazda reached up to touch Dami’s cheek.
“Oh, you’ve got henna again,” Dami observed delightedly, drawing Varazda’s hand away from his face to look at it. “I didn’t notice.”
“They often do it at birth celebrations. There were a lot of Pseuchaian girls there who were very excited about it. So exotic, you know. So Sasian.” He gave the Pseuchaian pronunciation an exaggerated hiss.
Dami gave a disapproving grunt. “Your designs are beautiful. Can I touch?”
“Sure.”
He ran a thumb lightly over Varazda’s palm. “I’ll be back before it wears off. I promise.”
There was a thunderstorm the night before Damiskos left, but the next day dawned clear and cold, and the ship was set to sail. The whole household came down to the harbour to see him off, everyone wrapped in thick cloaks, Remi dozing with her head on Yazata’s shoulder. It was Kallisto who rounded the others up and herded them away so that Damiskos and Varazda could have a moment together on the dock.
“I’ll write as soon as I can and let you know what’s going on,” Damiskos said, unable to think of anything else.
“If there’s anything we can do to help … ” said Varazda.
One braid of his hair trailed out from under the hood of his cloak. Damiskos reached out and tucked it back in. Varazda smiled.
“You could … we could kiss,” he offered. “If you want.”
“Yeah?” They didn’t ordinarily kiss in public, and this place was very public, with sailors and dock hands and passengers passing and Varazda’s family standing nearby, very obviously watching.
Varazda nodded serenely.
Damiskos slid his hand in under Varazda’s hood, cupping the back of his neck, and leaned in and kissed him, firmly and deeply. Varazda staggered a little when he let go of Damiskos’s shoulders. It may have been for effect—or it may not. It had been a good kiss.
It was pretty much the only thing about their parting that Damiskos could reflect on with satisfaction as the ship moved away from the dock and he watched the waving figures of Varazda and his family grow smaller. The last two nights they had tried and failed to make love; the first time they had been interrupted, and the second time Varazda hadn’t been able to get hard, and when Damiskos had pointed out that this was obviously because he was forcing himself when he didn’t feel like it, they had almost quarrelled.
And before that and colouring all of that, his stupid, stupid question in the yard after he got his parents’ letter. But even thinking back on it now and hating himself for the way it had come out, he couldn’t think of any better way he might have said it. Should he give up his apartment in Pheme or not? That was the practical matter.
The truth was, in the moment he had expected Varazda to say, No. No, if it’s not too much trouble. No, I don’t think it would be a good idea just yet—do you? He hadn’t expected their future to be settled in that curt and unromantic question. He owed Varazda better than that.
The journey from Boukos to the city of Pheme took a little less than two days in late autumn. It was broken at Anthousa on the north coast, where the passengers got off and had a bad night’s sleep in an overpriced hostel, and everyone arrived bleary-eyed on the docks in Pheme around the seventh hour the following afternoon.
Damiskos had always had mixed feelings about arriving in Pheme. He didn’t dislike the city the way some people did, but he didn’t love it either. He’d liked almost all of the other places he’d lived better, so coming home always had an air of vague disappointment for him.
As they drew within sight of the city, all the grandeur of its marble buildings was still muffled up in a grubby-looking fog. By the time they reached the harbour the fog had burned off, but the sunlight was cold, the air damp. Damiskos made his way up through the warehouses and factories of Lower Goulina to the Vallina Hill, and headed straight for Kleon’s stable.
“Kleon!” he called, recognizing the hostler in the stableyard from behind by his broad shoulders and bald head.
Kleon turned and gaped, his expression looking quite genuine. “Damiskos Philionides? I—I didn’t think I’d been seeing you again.” He looked, honestly, a little as if he was seeing a ghost.
“You didn’t? What, have rumours been circulating?” It was possible, given the unusual way he had left the Quartermaster’s Office, that some people had been saying he was in exile or disgrace—but he didn’t think it would have been a major piece of gossip.
“Well, you dropped off the face of the earth for, what? Two months?” Kleon was beginning to sound defensive. His eyes darted around the yard.
“One month. I’ve been in Boukos, visiting a friend.”
“One month, still—that’s four weeks’ payment missed. I’d like to do a favour for you because you’re a friend, but I’m running a business, and—”
“Wait a minute. Four weeks—you mean to te
ll me you haven’t been paid for Xanthe’s board in four weeks?”
Kleon shrugged hopelessly. “What was I to think? I thought you’d dropped off the face of the earth.”
“What did you do?” Damiskos felt sick. He knew the answer before Kleon said it.
“I sold her.” Kleon looked as if he felt sick himself. “The day—the day before yesterday. I held on as long as I could, but—” He spread his hands hopelessly. “I have to pay rent myself. I’m sorry.”
“No,” Damiskos managed. “I’m sorry. I sent money to—someone—to pay Xanthe’s board while I was away, but obviously … ”
“Shit. They cheated you. Damiskos, I’m so sorry. It wasn’t that bastard Dromo, was it?”
“No, no. I don’t suppose, if you only sold her two days ago—do you know where I might find her?” Not that he could afford to buy her back. He didn’t know what he was going to do.
“Ah, well, actually—there’s some hope there. I sold her to a friend of mine, who has a place out in Thumia. Keeps retired racers, sort of a hobby. I let him have her for the price of four weeks’ board, not an obios more—it didn’t feel right profiting from the situation, whatever’d happened to you.” He shrugged. “He might be willing to let you have her back cheap. Though he knows what she’s worth, so I can’t make any promises.”
“Thanks, Kleon. You’ve been more than decent.”
“Nah, I feel like an asshole.” The hostler shook his head. “If only I’d held out a couple more days.”
Thumia was all the way out beyond the city limits on the other side of the Skalina. Damiskos had only a light bag with him, so he didn’t bother to return to his apartment. He ate a greasy meat pie and an apple in the Vallina Market, then set off across the river. He had a little money on him—most of what he’d taken with him to Boukos, in fact, since Varazda had not let him spend much of it—and he would have access to more when he could get to the Bursar’s office. For the time being, he hoped he would be able to arrange something on credit. At least to prevent the man from selling Xanthe on to someone else. She wasn’t worth as much as all that, he told himself by way of comfort. She had been a spectacular horse in her day, Zashian-bred, as brave as she was elegant, but she was old now. Well, she was thirteen. She wasn’t old.
It had been years since Damiskos had been through the Skalina neighbourhood, and it hadn’t improved from his memories. If anything, it was worse. It was a rambling slum of cheaply-built apartment blocks, many leaning and sagging against one another as if about to collapse, which they routinely did; the sky opened up in ominous patches here and there above piles of rubble. Many doors were boarded up, but many others had had the boards torn off. The streets stank of piss and rotting things.
Passing the door of a grimy wineshop on the main through-street, Damiskos was startled by a voice, vaguely familiar, hailing him from the shadows under the awning.
“First Spear! Oh, I’m sorry—I recall you don’t like being called that.”
Damiskos turned and shot a stern look at the man getting up from the bench in front of the wineshop. He took an involuntary step back when he saw who it was.
It was Helenos Kontiades, former student of the philosopher Eurydemos, failed plotter of the restoration of Phemian purity through pointless war with Zash.
He had an empty wine cup in his hand as he strolled out into the street. He had clearly spotted Damiskos’s step back, and an unpleasant smile spread on his lean face.
“Damiskos Temnon. How unexpected, and yet how fitting. First Giontes, then … and now you! Surprised to see me?”
He had been drinking in the middle of the afternoon, and in fact the way he stood there smiling slyly at Damiskos, wine cup dangling from his fingers, suggested that he was already rather drunk. He looked thinner than he had two months ago at Laothalia, and he’d grown a thick, dark beard. His tunic and mantle were both stained, and his hair looked greasy.
“I thought you were in exile,” said Damiskos, not moving from where he stood in the middle of the street.
Helenos tried to take a swallow from his empty wine cup, gave it an aggrieved expression, and laughed. “No, not really. Not officially. I can’t even claim that dignity. I’m simply in hiding.”
“I remember now,” said Damiskos flatly. “You escaped prosecution in Boukos and used your connections to weasel out of being sent home to Pheme to answer for your crimes here.”
Helenos gave him a bored look. “If you want to put it like that.” He ambled toward Damiskos. “It’s been wretched. I can’t tell you. I’ve been living on Pyria most of the time—do you have any idea what a shit-hole that place is? Full of savages. The water gives you diseases.” He waved his cup. “I’ve had no choice but to drink wine instead. Speaking of which, I don’t suppose you’d like to buy me another bottle?”
Damiskos gave him a long look. “You don’t suppose. Do you remember a couple of months ago when you seized my friend’s villa by force and killed several members of her household?”
“I?” Helenos widened his eyes exaggeratedly. “I have never personally killed anyone.”
“I bet.”
Helenos gave him another sly smile. “Oh, yes, you’re a man of action, Damiskos Temnon—don’t I know it? I see you’ve brought your sword.” He snickered. “Looking to use it?”
“Not particularly.”
“Mm. We could do something else. After you buy me that bottle, of course.”
Damiskos looked at him, wide-eyed. He was now frankly alarmed. This was not how Helenos had behaved at Laothalia.
Rather against his better judgement, because he knew that any prolongation of this conversation inevitably played into Helenos’s hands somehow, Damiskos said, “What are you doing in Pheme?”
“Oh, you know. Irons in the fire and so on.” Helenos had advanced close enough now for Damiskos to smell the boozy scent emanating from him. He waved a hand. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. My fangs have been very effectively drawn. I’m in hiding, as I said. My little band of fanatics has been dispersed—poor Gelon was executed, did you know? And my lovely Phaia was sent to Choros Rock, which is a fine old Pseuchaian institution, to be sure—who better than an ancient order of priestesses on a windswept rock in the sea to be the guardians of gentle womanhood gone astray—still, you can’t deny that she was a useful firebrand. And I do mean that in every sense.” He licked his lips.
He was revolting, but Damiskos almost felt sorry for him. This Helenos was pitiable compared to the slick, charismatic fellow he had been in the summer. But it was hard to feel truly sorry for a man who’d had you dumped headfirst into a fish-sauce vat and left to die.
“Don’t come any closer,” Damiskos said, because Helenos appeared about to.
“What’s the matter?” Helenos leaned in. “I thought you liked men.”
“I don’t like assholes.”
Helenos leaned closer still, the alcohol on his breath pungent in Damiskos’s face. “Neither,” he snarled, “do I. You ruined me, Damiskos from the Quartermaster’s Office, you and that fucking Sasian cunt of a—”
“Don’t”—Damiskos’s hand was fisted in the front of Helenos’s tunic so tightly he almost lifted the other man off his feet—“speak of him.”
“Whuh?” Helenos looked completely, genuinely surprised. “Oh, immortal gods, I remember now! You were fucking him! Are you always so loyal to your whores?”
Damiskos threw him across the street.
He hit the bench in front of the wine shop with a crash, thudded against the shop counter, and slid to land in a heap on the ground. For a moment, Damiskos wondered if he was dead. Then Helenos pushed himself shakily up, groaning. He wiped blood from his mouth, where he must have bitten his lip, and did not rise from the ground. His wine cup lay shattered on the pavement.
There were people watching—an old woman and a little boy sitting on a doorstep, a couple of other patrons in the dim interior of the wine shop—and Damiskos did not like to think of himself as the typ
e of man who would beat a drunk in the street and leave him there, even if he very much wanted to. He stalked over to where Helenos sat slumped, and hauled him up with a hand under his armpit.
“Where are you staying?”
“You want to come home with me after all?” Helenos blinked at him. At close quarters like this, he stank. “I’m not sure I can withstand your attentions, but—”
“I want,” said Damiskos crisply, “to kick your head in, but I’ll settle for dropping you on your doorstep and never seeing you again. Where are you staying?”
Helenos squirmed, wincing. “You really hurt me, you know.”
“Good. Where?”
“Across the street.” Helenos jerked his chin. “The door with the peeling paint—the one that’s not hanging off its hinges. I’m on the top floor. You can manage?” He batted his eyelashes again.
“Fuck you.”
Damiskos half-marched, half-dragged him across the street, through the door with the peeling paint—not a very helpful description, all the doors around here had peeling paint—and up three narrow, badly listing flights of stairs. A thin, white-haired man, carrying what looked like a bundle of dirty grey fur, squeezed past them on the last flight with a nod and an odd, cringing smile, and darted in one of the doors off of the small landing at the top.
One of the remaining doors stood open, but Helenos waved grandly at the third and said, “My abode. If you would be so good.” He dug in his mantle and produced a purse, from which, after some fumbling, he extracted a key, which he promptly dropped.
“Terza’s cock,” Damiskos muttered, propping Helenos against the wall before bending to retrieve the key.
Of course the key didn’t fit the lock; it was evidently a key for something else entirely, and the door was not locked. Helenos went off into fits of laughter and clutched his ribs dramatically. One of his neighbours put a grizzled head out her door, swore incoherently at them, then froze in terror when she saw Damiskos’s sword and retreated inside, closing her door as quietly as possible, as if she thought this might prevent them from noticing her.
