by A. J. Demas
The two people approaching were the boy Niko from Nione’s household and the philosopher Lysandros. The person with the lantern was Aradne.
“We found them!” she yelled triumphantly over her shoulder.
Nione had the use of the private carriages of the Maidens’ House, and she and Aradne had found out where everyone had gone, driven over to the Temnons’ building, and followed Damiskos and Varazda’s trail. They were all inside the carriage by the time the men from the wine shop caught up with them. Aradne was ordering Varazda to strip off his wet tunic. Out the window, Damiskos could see their pursuers recognize the Maidens’ carriage and fall back nervously. Aradne gave an order to the driver, and the carriage rolled sedately up the street.
They returned to Damiskos’s parents’ house, and from there an assortment of people whom Damiskos was too tired to catalogue rode back with them to Aradne’s. Varazda, warmed up and snuggled in Damiskos’s cloak, fell asleep on the way there, with his head on Damiskos’s shoulder.
Damiskos was prepared to let him sleep, and would have tried to carry him into the house if necessary—though he knew he wouldn’t have been able to do it—but when they arrived, Varazda woke up looking quite alert, and even when they had retired to their room and got under the covers, he did not immediately shut his eyes. Damiskos pulled him close.
“I wish you could have heard the way Chariton talked about you today,” Damiskos said.
Varazda snorted. “I’d rather have heard how he talked about you.”
“Oh, well. You’d have liked the other advocate’s speech too. It was a fiction, but you’d have appreciated the ingenuity of it.”
“Hm. Maybe. In all seriousness … I was surprised to hear that Chariton mentioned me. I suppose the reaction of your family’s advocate affected me more than I liked to pretend. I’m afraid I was beginning to think of myself as a liability.”
“My whole family’s reaction was shameful,” said Damiskos. “I am sorry you had to put up with any of it.”
“You did an admirable job of shielding me from them—but of course, since I noticed that’s what you were doing, in a way it only made me feel worse. That’s not a criticism, just … ”
“I know.” He squeezed Varazda’s bare shoulders. “And I know you don’t suffer torments every time someone is casually cruel, but that’s only because you’re used to it, and it’s no use for me to say, ‘You shouldn’t have to be,’ because … ”
“Stop it before you tie yourself into an actual knot,” said Varazda, laughing. “You know, I think you’ve been right about your family all along. You love them, but you have to love them from a distance. It doesn’t have to be as far away as Zash, but it does probably have to be a little further than the Vallina Hill.”
“Like Boukos?”
“I think Boukos will be perfect.”
Damiskos smiled wryly. “I hope so. I mean, I don’t want you to have to … I don’t want them to be your burden too.”
“I do,” said Varazda simply. “And I’ve an idea about that, too. Tell me what you think.”
Chapter 21
Everyone was at Aradne’s house the following morning. Some of them, indeed, seemed not to have left: the philosopher Lysandros was there, in the mantle he’d worn yesterday, chatting with Aradne, and Chariton emerged from one of the guest rooms, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
Varazda retold the story of his investigation, why he had known the significance of the silver scorpion—everyone, for some reason, kept interrupting to say, “If it wasn’t a lobster!” and roar with laughter—and how he had tracked down Phaia, once over breakfast, and again when Dami’s parents arrived shortly afterward.
The latter telling involved introducing a lot of background information about what had happened at Laothalia, in order to explain how the various parties were related to one another and who held grudges against whom. In the end, it amounted to Varazda, Dami, and Aradne giving a more or less complete account of the events of the summer, absent a few of the more confidential and private details.
“Do you mean to say,” said Dami’s mother, “that that ridiculous philosopher who spoke at the trial was a suspect?”
“A very credible suspect,” said Nione.
“We all hoped he’d done it,” said Aradne.
“And he spoke for the prosecution?” said Philion, wide-eyed. “The nerve of the man!”
“Don’t you think,” said Ino, when there was a pause in the conversation, “that in a way he did do it?”
“No, dear, you see—” Myrto started.
“I know what you mean,” said Varazda. “I think you’re right. One of his students killed another one, over a disagreement that, if it wasn’t exactly philosophical, was pretty close to it. He should bear some responsibility.”
“He won’t,” Lysandros intoned. “But I don’t need to tell you that.”
“I thought it was a romantic entanglement?” said Timiskos. “With the two students.”
“They were lovers,” said Varazda, “but I think that was incidental. They seemed to regard each other mostly as trophies. He was the rising star, and she was the only female student—they thought they were going to go on to great things together. It just turned out they didn’t have the same idea of what those great things were, and she couldn’t forgive him for that.”
“We don’t hold with any of that,” said Philion stiffly. “War with Sasia. Phemian, uh, uh, whatever it was.” He glanced at Dami. “You know that, don’t you, son?”
“Yes, sir.” Dami smiled and looked at the floor. “Yes, sir, I know that.”
“You’re tremendously brave to have done all that climbing in windows and hunting down suspects,” said Myrto to Varazda. “I feel faint just thinking about it.”
Dami draped an arm around Varazda’s shoulders and grinned. “You don’t know the half of it, Mother.”
“Has he told you about the time Pharastes freed the hostages at Laothalia?” asked Aradne.
He hadn’t, so then that story had to be told, in a way that made Varazda’s role sound much more heroic and much less like it had been a matter of luck and dramatic timing than the way he remembered it. He listened with half his attention.
He didn’t know if he would go so far as to say that Timiskos’s cock-eyed staged kidnapping scheme had worked, but maybe it was the combination of the threat to their son with the loss of most of their possessions. Maybe, he thought charitably, they had been more worried about Dami’s trial than they had let on, and everything coming to a head on a single day … Whatever it was, they had clearly reached some kind of realization about their behaviour that had eluded them before.
Philion had said several times the night before, “This was all my fault.” He’d even said something, in Varazda’s hearing, about wanting to stop gambling but not knowing how. Myrto was being elaborately nice to everyone, especially Timiskos, and had explained proudly that morning how he was going to start a business decorating houses. Philion had looked as if the idea didn’t thrill him as much as it apparently did his wife, but he too was making an effort.
Dami’s father had been darting awkward glances at Varazda ever since arriving, as if he might feel he ought to say something but didn’t know what. Finally, in part because he simply didn’t want to hear whatever the man might come up with, Varazda spared him the trouble.
“Will you come walk in the garden with me, sir?” he said.
Philion looked startled, then faintly alarmed, then tried to cover it all with a breezy attitude. “Of course, of course.”
“I’d like to make you an offer,” Varazda said as soon as they were out the door into the chilly peristyle surrounding Aradne’s small, elegant garden. “This is not in exchange for anything, it is simply for you to accept or decline.”
“I, uh—oh?”
“I’d like to buy the house where you live. I realize,” he added quickly, as Philion cleared his throat to tell him something he already knew, “that you do not own it. I
have already spoken with the man who does—as you may know, he has been looking to sell—and the price he wants for it is within my means to pay.” Only just, but he didn’t say that.
Philion’s eyes went very wide.
Varazda smiled. “He could probably get more for it, but don’t tell him that.”
“Ha ha, yes—er, no. Of course. Would you—if you—”
“I would need a superintendant to see to the upkeep of the building, since I live in Boukos. I thought of offering you the job and letting you and your wife live rent-free.”
“Why?” asked Philion after a moment, sounding more puzzled than suspicious. “Why would you do that?”
“Because you’re Damiskos’s parents. Don’t misunderstand. If I thought he wanted to consign you to the hounds of the Dark Valley, I would push you over the precipice myself and whistle for them—but he doesn’t. He’s not the kind of man who could ever turn his back on his family, and I love that about him. So if I can’t eliminate you from our life, the next best thing, as I see it, is to keep tabs on you. I think if I became your landlord and employer, I’d be able to do that.”
Philion cleared his throat several times. “That’s—er. That’s … ”
“Probably a better deal than you would have got out of the Karganian fertilizer business, honestly,” said Varazda. “Certainly less risky.”
“Gods, yes. Real estate is the way to go. I’ve always said it. A wise decision. And very er—very generous of you.”
“Mm,” said Varazda. “Yes. We’ll see.”
Varazda and Damiskos’s father returned to the dining room just as Niko was announcing the arrival of two new guests. No, three new guests. And “guests” was a stretch.
“What are you doing here?” Ino demanded of her mother and father.
“Coming to fetch you, of course,” said Korinna. “We are staying with Agron Ephorbos and his family. Obviously we can’t remain under Philion and Myrto’s roof.”
Philion glanced sidelong at Varazda, his allegiance shifting to the person who had offered him the easiest money.
“Obviously!” he agreed heartily. “For one thing, there aren’t any beds for you to sleep in, haha! And you, Olympios? I didn’t think I was going to see you again any time soon. Didn’t want to, either. Suited me well enough. What are you doing here?”
“Olympios has been advising us,” Korinna said before the advocate could speak. “We intend to sue your son for breach of promise to our daughter.”
“You can’t!” Ino cried, starting up from her couch. “He didn’t!”
“Ah, but there you are mistaken, my dear,” said Olympios, getting a word in past Korinna. “As your mother has confirmed, Damiskos Temnon did propose marriage to you, fifteen years ago, and never made good his proposal. Since you are now a widow—”
“What?” Chariton burst out, through a bark of laughter. “Fifteen years ago and she’s a widow? Meaning she married someone else in the interim? But that’s preposterous! He didn’t breach his promise—she broke the engagement! She married someone else.” He was laughing too hard to continue.
“She is now free, and he should honour his promise,” said Olympios with what dignity he could scrounge up. “We intend to make the case that—”
“No, see, I think what he was saying,” said Lysandros, thumping Chariton on the back because he seemed in danger of choking with laughter, “is that marrying someone else is sort of the definition of breaking an engagement?”
“Actually,” said Dami, “her parents broke the engagement before she married the other fellow.”
“Don’t tell him that,” said Lysandros, thumping Chariton again. “You’ll kill him.”
“What?” said Olympios, turning to Korinna and Simonides with a look of horror. “You—you didn’t tell me that!”
Chariton had regained his composure enough to say, “Were you the same person who advised them that they could withhold their daughter’s inheritance? Because they can’t do that, either.”
“What?” Olympios looked like a man beginning to hope he was having a bad dream. “No! That wasn’t me. Did you honestly think you could sue him if you broke the engagement? Do you realize what a fool you’ve made me look?”
“Well, that doesn’t take much work,” Myrto remarked.
“What do you mean, we can’t withhold her inheritance?” Korinna was doing her goose impression again, ignoring Olympios.
“Again, it hinges on her marriage.” Chariton managed to confine himself to giggling. “Since she—excuse me. Since she was married, her father no longer controls her ability to inherit—since she is widowed—sorry—her late husband no longer controls it either, so that, absent any instructions left by her late husband, of which I gather there were none—excuse me. Er, yes. Absent any such instructions, no one controls her ability to inherit but herself. Legally, the thing—what is it again? Oh, the f—the f—” He became incapacitated with laughter again. “It’s—hers. The thing—it’s hers.”
“The shit business,” Aradne supplied, with relish.
“Vulgar,” Simonides muttered.
“Niko!” Aradne called. “I think you should show these people out. Ino, are you going to go with them? You’re welcome to stay.”
Ino sat back down on her couch, and there was a serenity about her expression as though she had made an important decision. It struck Varazda that she was speaking of more than Aradne’s invitation when she said, composedly, “Yes. I will.”
There was one more visitor that day, later in the afternoon. He declined to come in any further than the atrium, but he asked to speak to Damiskos. It was Helenos’s father.
“I have come to express my thanks in person,” he said, “for bringing my son’s murderer to justice. Your friend will not need to testify at the trial. Phaia took her own life last night.”
“I see,” said Damiskos. So that was it. It was over. “I never had the chance to tell you, sir, that I am sorry for your loss.”
Kontios Diophoros looked embarrassed. “Under the circumstances … ”
“I know, but I was a credible suspect. If I had been in your position, I would have prosecuted me too.”
Kontios smiled wryly. “It won’t do my reputation any good, having wrongly prosecuted a hero of the Second Koryphos, but I doubt the episode will harm you, socially—which is some comfort. You came out of it rather well.” After a moment he added, “I wish you and my son could have been friends. I never thought much of the friends he did have.”
Damiskos and Varazda went for a walk around the neighbourhood in the evening, after most of the people had cleared out of Aradne’s house. It was a substitute for their usual walk to and from their favourite bathhouse in Boukos. Damiskos lifted one of Varazda’s hands as they walked, and turned it to look at his palm. The henna had faded a little, but the pattern was still visible. They walked on, hands linked.
They were headed for the island, not to eat fish this time, but just to stand on the bridge on the far side, leaning on the rail, looking out toward the sunset over the harbour. In Pheme the sun rose out of the mountains and set into the sea. There was a famous line about it in a poem, that Damiskos wished he could remember to quote now.
“So,” he said instead, “it’s all over. No second trial.” We can go home. Why was it so difficult to say that?
“I’m glad. Not—” Varazda frowned. “Not glad that she killed herself, but that may only be because I’m still Zashian enough to dislike suicide. Glad that this won’t all be drawn out any longer.”
“Let’s see,” said Damiskos, to change the subject. “Ino’s free of her parents, that’s good, and Timiskos is going to go into business for himself, doing whatever it is he wants to do—”
“He’s going to do a good job of it. That work he did on your mother’s atrium is really first-class.”
“My parents, speaking of my parents, are going to be your tenants—I can’t believe you actually did that, and they actually agreed.”
/> “Oh, your mother loves the idea. It was only your father I was worried about convincing. And that wasn’t hard.”
“Timiskos’s debts are paid, Gorgion Pandares is off his back, for the time being at least. And may think twice about coming after our family again, because I’m pretty sure it was him you threw in the river. My parents got some of their furniture back. Who else is accounted for?”
“Korinna and her goblin—I mean husband—have slunk off with their tails between their legs. Oh, and your family’s advocate has been humiliated, which I must say I found satisfying.”
“Profoundly.”
“Eurydemos … well, it was a pleasure to see him sent packing by his boyfriend, but he’s the type who never stays down for long—his inflated sense of his own self-worth buoys him up like a bladder.”
Damiskos laughed. “Aradne and Nione, now—that’s nice.”
“Yes, they sorted themselves out beautifully, didn’t they? I’m so proud of them. And it only took them about the same length of time that it took us.”
“What? No, they’ve known each other since Aradne was a little girl.”
“Oh, right. I knew that.”
“No one comes close to beating our record for speed of falling in love.”
Varazda snorted inelegantly. Damiskos lifted his hand to his lips and very lightly kissed his fingers.
“And us—are we … all right?”
He didn’t know how else to ask it. Part of him felt that he should ask forgiveness, for coming so close to giving up on their future together. But he also knew that Varazda had already forgiven him for that. What he wanted to know was just whether they could go back to Boukos now and carry on as before. Except—how had they been carrying on before? They’d been teetering on the edge of something, some permanence, and were they past that now, or not?
“I think so,” said Varazda slowly, and it wasn’t quite the resounding answer Damiskos found he had been hoping for. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you.”
