by A. J. Demas
He whirled and let the thief get a good look at the knife he had been carrying in his belt, then put it neatly back when the man scurried away.
He had overshot Dami’s neighbourhood, it turned out, but this time he got clearer directions, and it didn’t take him long to retrace his steps and find himself on the right street, then in front of the right building, looking up at the windows of the place where Dami lived. He found he was oddly nervous.
He greeted the woman sweeping the steps of the building. “I’m looking for Damiskos Temnon—I believe he lives here?”
She looked him up and down curiously. “He did. He moved out, oh—a week ago?”
“Oh,” said Varazda. “Do you have any idea where?”
“No, he didn’t leave an address. I didn’t hear where he had his things taken, either. Oh, but if you see him, tell him some letters came for him.”
“I—do you mind if I see them?”
She looked uncertain for a moment, then disappeared inside the building and returned with two small, sealed rolls of paper. Varazda recognized them with a sinking feeling.
“I sent these,” he said. “Do you mind if I take them?”
“I suppose you might as well,” she said.
He spent some time sitting on a doorstep near Dami’s apartment building, holding his unopened letters, fighting back panic. Finally he collected himself, reminding himself sternly that Dami had said he was going to give up his apartment, so of course he wasn’t there. And as for Varazda, he was an adult, and this was just a Pseuchaian city—so long as he kept his wits about him and avoided bad neighbourhoods, there was nothing to be afraid of.
The only question was where he should go now. Where could he go now?
Dami’s parents lived in Pheme, of course, but Varazda had no idea where. And while he was sure he could find a reasonable inn—probably—to spend the night, the sun was still high in the sky, and that wouldn’t do him much good now. He needed to find someone he knew. Surely he did know someone in Pheme, besides Dami.
He was trying to remember the names of any of the Phemian diplomats he had met at the Basileon, when it occurred to him. He did know someone in Pheme; he even knew, roughly, how to find her house. She had written Dami a long letter, which he had read out to Varazda, in which she said she was staying at a house in the city, and described its location: near the Maidens’ House, overlooking a park.
An hour later, after only a couple of false starts (apparently when you asked for directions to the Maidens’ House in Pheme, people thought you were coyly asking to be directed to a brothel), Varazda arrived on a doorstep in a quiet street. The sun was beginning to go down, the shadows of buildings already making the streets dark. He hoped he was at the right door.
It was opened to his knock by a servant he did not recognize, a young woman with dark brown skin and black curls who struck him as looking like Remi might when she grew up.
“Is your mistress in?” he asked, trying not to smile too obviously at her.
The girl laughed. “Which one?”
“Oh, I am sorry. Perhaps I have the wrong house.” A distinct possibility. The neighbourhood was confusing, and the house’s door was tucked in between shop-fronts. “I’m looking for Nione Kukara.”
“She’s in the dining room,” said the girl cheerfully. “Have you eaten?”
“I … haven’t,” said Varazda, coming inside at her gesture. “But shouldn’t your mistress—one of them—be the one to ask me to dinner?”
“Should she?” The girl closed the door behind him. “I would have said so, normally, but she freed us all two weeks ago, and since then we don’t know whether we’re coming or going.”
“Congratulations! May—may the gods smile on you.” That wasn’t the right expression, but it conveyed the general idea. “I remember that feeling. I was freed as part of a group, too. We all wandered around in a daze for a while, not knowing what to do with ourselves.”
“That’s exactly how it is here. Let me announce you. Oh, who are you, anyway?”
“Say ‘Pharastes from Boukos.’”
The girl’s mouth fell open. “No! Not the Pharastes? I’ve heard so many stories about you! I was in town when everything happened out at the villa, but the other girls told me about it. I thought you were just terribly Sasian, from the way they talked—but you look quite normal. Sorry, sorry—off I go!” She turned and pelted away into the house, where he heard her breathlessly announcing him from the door of the dining room.
“Pharastes is here! You know, Pharastes from the summer—the Pharastes?”
He followed her in. Nione was just sitting up on her couch, from where she been snuggled up against her companion, a big woman in a beautiful blue dress, with tiny gold butterflies sparkling in the dark cloud of her hair. Aradne, who had been Nione’s steward in the summer.
This was what the girl had meant when she asked which of the mistresses of the house he wanted to see. Varazda had to restrain a ridiculous urge to bounce and clap his hands excitedly, the way his daughter might have done.
“Ph—Varazda,” Nione corrected herself carefully. “What a pleasant surprise! Are you and Damiskos in Pheme together?”
“No,” he admitted, the desire to bounce draining away.
“No,” said Aradne, pushing herself up to sit too, serious and alert. “Something’s happened to Damiskos.”
“It has?” Nione glanced between Aradne and Varazda, momentarily confused. “What?”
“I don’t know,” said Varazda. “It might be nothing. But I’ve come here because I’d nowhere else to go.”
“Sit down, for the gods’ love,” said Aradne. “Have you eaten dinner?”
He sat and rearranged some food on a dish while he explained why Dami had come to Pheme and what had happened when he went to Dami’s apartment. Nione and Aradne sat listening intently, and did not resnuggle themselves on their couch. Varazda felt guilty for interrupting their cozy meal, and sad that the moment for bouncing and hand-clapping had been preempted by his own trouble.
“It is probably nothing,” he said. “Dami didn’t write because he didn’t get my letters, and he didn’t get my letters because he’s given up his apartment. He—he said he was going to.”
“Oh!” Nione clasped her hands delightedly. “Did he—is it because—”
“He’s moving in with you,” said Aradne.
“Yes.”
“Hooray!” said Aradne, grinning. “That’s the best news.”
“Oh, I’m so glad,” said Nione. “He seemed very happy in his letter.”
“You both seem very happy,” Varazda got in at last.
They exchanged glances and smiled. “We are,” said Aradne.
“How long have you … ” He gestured vaguely, Zashian-style.
“Oh, twenty years, give or take,” said Aradne with a smile, reaching across to squeeze Nione’s hand. “And about a month.”
“Might Damiskos be at his parents’ house?” said Nione.
“That seems most likely,” said Aradne. “Do we have any idea where they live?”
“None,” Varazda admitted. “I have generally avoided talking to him about his parents.”
“They had a house on the North Bank, near the Tortina Bridge, when I first knew him,” said Nione, “but I believe they sold it, or … ” She winced.
“Lost it,” Varazda finished for her. “He said something about that. I gather they rent a place now. Actually, I do recall that he said it was in a neighbourhood that is … somehow tacky?”
“Upper Goulina, maybe?” said Aradne.
“Is Upper Goulina tacky?” Nione asked.
“So tacky,” said Aradne. “How do you not know that?”
“I don’t know anyone who lives there. What about the Rina?”
Aradne shook her head. “That was sketchy, not tacky, and it’s improving, anyway. It’s almost fashionable now. I say start with the Goulina. We’ll send one of the boys to ask around first thing tomorrow. Wha
t’s Damiskos’s father’s name?”
Varazda winced. “Phil-something. He never uses his patronymic, so I’m not sure. His family name is Temnon.”
“Oh, that’s right,” said Aradne, “he has a family name. So they’re aristocrats who lost their city house and live in a tacky part of town—it’ll be Upper Goulina for sure.”
“His father is Philion Temnon,” Nione supplied, a little apologetically. “Philionides is his patronymic.”
“Ah yes,” said Varazda, embarrassed.
He wondered if Dami remembered son of Nahaz son of Aroz of the clan Kamun, which Varazda never, ever used but had for some reason trotted out when Dami asked about his name the first time. He also never remembered that Dami was an aristocrat. It wasn’t a status that seemed to have much meaning in Boukos, but that didn’t, just then, strike Varazda as being a very good excuse.
“Do you have anywhere to—” Aradne started. “No, of course you don’t.” She swung herself off the couch and went to the dining-room door to call for the girl who looked like Remi.
“Have a room made up for Pharastes, will you? The one with the peacock on the wall, maybe.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The girl glanced over Aradne’s shoulder to smile at Varazda.
“And get Niko for us too, will you? We’ll have a job for him tomorrow.” Aradne turned back to Varazda. “Now—eat something.”
Niko, a boy whom Varazda remembered from Laothalia, arrived and at first didn’t recognize Varazda in Pseuchaian clothes, then was almost as excited to see him as the doorkeeper had been. Aradne explained his errand, and he had to be sternly forbidden from setting off on it then and there—“because it’s not quite dark yet, is it, ma’am?”—instead of waiting for the following morning.
Varazda forced himself to eat some dinner, and then Aradne said, “Let me show you around my house.”
Nione made a little noise of protest. “Maybe not just now, my dear. I won’t say you look like you need to rest, Varazda, but I’m sure, in your position, I would need to rest, and perhaps you would like to.”
He smiled gratefully. “That’s quite a good idea.”
“Oh, all right,” said Aradne, getting up. “I’ll take you to your room. You’re my first guest, did you know?”
“Really? I’m honoured.”
“First guest in my own house. It’s quite special.”
Nione remained in the dining room, and Varazda followed Aradne out into the atrium. When she closed the door behind her, he grinned at her.
“Can I give you a hug?” he asked.
“I was just about to ask if I could give you one.”
She was built a little bit like Yazata, and she gave excellent hugs. When she let him go, he said, “Did she … ”
“Buy me a house? Yes, she did. Come on—she’s right, you do need to rest, and all flattery aside, you look it, too. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.”
Chapter 6
It took Niko a couple of hours to find out the Temnons’ address the following morning, but as he set off at dawn, he was back by the time Varazda was eating breakfast. The house was in Upper Goulina, as Aradne had predicted.
“I can take you there myself,” she said. “I’ll make myself scarce after we get there, of course. And if you don’t want company on the way—”
“Oh, I do, profoundly. Thank you.”
He finished dressing after breakfast in the Zashian-style suit he had brought with him. If he had to show up unannounced on Dami’s parents’ doorstep, he thought he might as well let them know straight away what they were dealing with. Aradne, wrapped in a warm mantle, with the gold butterflies winking in her hair again, spent the first part of the journey to the Goulina Hill interrogating him about the construction, fashions, and customs surrounding trousers.
“How did you know where to find us?” she asked finally.
“Nione wrote to Dami a couple of weeks ago. I guess they had been corresponding, and she knew where he was staying. She said she was at a house in the city, and described where it was. She didn’t mention she’d bought it for you.”
Aradne smiled. “She didn’t mean to, at first. We were renting it, to get away from Laothalia—that was my idea, actually, because I was afraid … After that business in the summer, she was spending all her time praying, and of course I’m in favour of a certain amount of praying, but I was afraid she was going to make some kind of rash decision. Well, to tell you the truth, I was afraid of her taking a new vow of celibacy.” With a reticence that was unusual for her, she said, “I’d waited so long for her to be free of the first one. And then that gods-cursed Phaia got to her first and broke her heart.”
Varazda winced sympathetically. “You didn’t blame Nione for that?” he asked after a moment. He would have, in Aradne’s position.
“Oh, I did. When you came to the villa in the summer, I wasn’t too pleased with Nione, and she, bless her heart, had no idea why.” She sighed. “And then all that happened, and Phaia turned out to be a snake in the grass—sometimes I still regret I never got my hands on her. They sent her to Choros Rock, didn’t they? She deserved worse.” She shook herself slightly. “Anyway, it was my idea to come here, and I picked the house and everything, just asked—well, told, really—Nione to give me money to rent it.
“So we came here, and it was a brilliant idea, if I say so myself. One thing led to another, and when Nione found out the house was for sale, she bought it for me. She was hung up on the difference in our status and wanted me to have a place of my own, so I didn’t feel dependent on her. She was afraid I wouldn’t accept the house as a gift, too!” Aradne laughed. “That kind of thing doesn’t bother me. Would it bother you?”
Varazda considered that. It was a very hypothetical question. “I’m afraid it might, a little. But I’m, well, probably more male than you.”
Aradne shouted with laughter and slapped him on the back. “Probably! It wouldn’t take much.”
“But look here—‘one thing led to another’? You can’t possibly expect me to be content with that.”
“Oh.” She looked surprised. “I don’t know. Most people would be. It wasn’t a romantic thing, with declarations and … well, I suppose there was a little bit of that, with the freeing of all the slaves and that.”
“She did that for you?”
“Obviously. Well, in a way. It wasn’t as if she didn’t think it was the right thing to do.” She was silent for a moment, then she seemed to have marshalled her thoughts, and she said, “I don’t know if you can really understand what it was like for me. I’ve known her since I was a little girl—she was a girl then too, but I don’t think I ever noticed. She was always … like a goddess to me. Sort of—sort of literally. I thought I was the steadfast, loyal one, but when she retired from the Maidens … I didn’t know how to love her as an ordinary woman, and so Phaia got to her before me, and I couldn’t even explain why that upset me so much.
“She didn’t know that I wanted her, because I’d spent so many years worshipping her as if she wasn’t really human. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You said it wasn’t romantic. You get to be with your goddess, and that’s not romantic?”
Aradne scowled at him. “It’s terrifying, is what it is. You don’t believe in deities that can walk the earth—that’s why you can’t understand.”
“Oh.” That brought him up short.
“Mind you,” she said after a moment, with a small, secretive smile, “it’s also wonderful, and I’m—we’re both—very, very happy. Anyway, here we are.”
They stood in front of a barbershop on a street of big, decrepit-looking houses, and Aradne said, “We’re here.”
Varazda looked up at the building. It had a facade of dirty pink stucco that was falling off in places, and an indecipherable mythological fresco in between the windows on the second storey. The barbershop, which had a clean new awning and customers waiting outside, was the only prosperous-looking part of the place. There w
as a door to the side of the barbershop with a lion’s-head knocker and a guard in a military-style helmet lounging against the doorpost.
Aradne frowned. “That’s odd. Let’s go see if we’ve got the right place.”
They approached the guard. “Excuse me,” said Varazda, with a little Zashian flair to match his clothes, “can we go in?”
“That depends,” said the guard, without moving from his slouch against the doorpost. “Are you a friend of Damiskos Philionides?”
“I am.” He said it before stopping to think about whether it was the right answer or not.
The guard shook his head with obvious satisfaction. “Then no. You can’t.”
“Why?” Aradne demanded.
The guard looked at her as if deciding whether she deserved an answer. “Because I say so, and I’m allowed to say so, because I’m guarding the door.”
“Why are you guarding the door, though?” Varazda asked, as politely as he could, before Aradne could snarl at the man. He felt cold. He didn’t want to hear the answer, but the question had to be asked.
“Your friend’s confined to the house awaiting trial. He killed a man.”
“Bullshit!” Aradne spat. “Who’s he supposed to have—”
“You wouldn’t happen to know,” Varazda cut in, his voice sounding surprisingly normal, “who was the victim?”
“Of course I know. My master brought the charges. Your friend killed his son. Helenos Kontiades Diophoros.”
“That’s—”
Varazda put a hand on Aradne’s arm. “That’s very surprising. We’re quite shocked. And you’re sure we can’t speak to him?”
“Yeah. I’m sure.” The guard smiled unpleasantly.
“We’d better go, then, hadn’t we?” said Varazda, and dragged Aradne away.