by A. J. Demas
The foreman reappeared, followed by a boy carrying a tray with several small cups. Damiskos hoped fleetingly that this wasn’t what it looked like.
“I thought you would like to sample our product,” said the foreman.
“Of course,” said Damiskos neutrally.
The factory made three different grades of fish sauce, and the foreman had brought samples of each. Damiskos dutifully sipped them all. Phaia declined, not very politely.
Damiskos wasn’t picky about food; he didn’t mind a dish strongly flavoured with fish sauce, but he wasn’t one of those people who liked to slop it on everything. He certainly had never felt inclined to drink it straight, and the experience didn’t change his mind.
“Let’s walk a little further down the beach,” Nione suggested, after her foreman had departed.
“Yes, let’s,” said Phaia.
She tucked her hand through Nione’s arm, murmuring something about how hard it was to walk on the soft sand. She wore stout sandals, and Damiskos doubted that she was really having difficulty. They made a striking pair, Phaia wispy and delicate and pale, Nione tall and lean, with her braids and her dark brown skin.
He tried to fall behind discreetly, but they were walking slowly enough even for him. He was steeling himself to admit that his knee hurt—it did, but that wasn’t the main reason he wanted to go back to the house. He felt very much in the way, and was more and more convinced that Phaia resented his presence. He couldn’t even really blame her.
They rounded a spur of rock that jutted onto the beach, and a small, exquisite cove opened up before them. A pair of tiny, whitewashed, slate-roofed stone huts nestled at the top of the wide, white beach. They were sheltered from the smell of the factory here, and it was very quiet.
“Those were ancient houses,” Nione said, pointing to the little buildings. “The walls have been here as long as anyone can remember. I had roofs put on and turned them into beach huts.”
“How perfect,” Phaia breathed. “The whole setting. It will make an ideal exercise ground for our school, Nione. Running along the beach at sunrise—ah! So invigorating. Of course I can’t exercise with the men, but you’d keep me company, wouldn’t you?”
“Running?” Nione laughed. “Blessed Orante, I don’t think so. Not unless something were chasing me.”
“Just watching would be perfect.”
Nione turned to Damiskos, who was just opening his mouth to say that it was time he headed back to the house. “Did I tell you, Damiskos? Phaia is trying to convince me to let her fellow students take up residence at Laothalia.”
“Oh. Really. I see.”
“Yes, you see, Eurydemos is my first cousin, and he was robbed of his inheritance by our grandfather—it’s a long, sad story. But I do feel myself obligated to make things right, as best I can. I don’t mean to suggest that he views himself as having a right to my property … ”
“Of course not!” Phaia chimed in. “He would never say such a thing—even though it is true. He is happy just to be invited to stay here. But no one suggests—no one would dream of suggesting—you ought to give up the villa to him. We simply think it would be a lovely gesture if you made room here for his school. Besides, Laothalia would suit us so well.”
“It is so far from the city, though,” said Nione doubtfully.
Damiskos thought he knew what Phaia would say to that.
“Oh, but that is an advantage! To be able to escape the clamour of the city would be bliss. To leave behind the cries of the marketplace and the wrangling of politicians … ”
Yes, that was about what he had expected.
So the philosopher was leeching off Nione on the strength of some injury two generations back, and his students were badgering her to give over part of her home for them to discuss their claptrap and go running on the beach. In Nione’s place he would have shut the whole thing down when it was first proposed.
Or maybe he wouldn’t. She missed the communal life of the Maidens’ House, just as he missed the camaraderie of the army. Maybe she would enjoy living among the students.
Finally he found an opportunity to announce his intention to return to the villa, but to Phaia’s obvious annoyance, Nione agreed that it was time for them all to go back.
“What about Aristokles Phoskos?” Phaia asked on the way back, in the midst of a conversation that Damiskos had been trying not to listen to. “Is he here to buy fish sauce too?”
“No! He’s here to meet Eurydemos—well, mainly. He’s a kinsman of a friend, who asked me to invite him as a favour because he was dying to meet your master.”
“Really? But he’s hardly spoken to our master. At least I haven’t seen them speak.”
“No? Oh, well. Perhaps he’s just shy.”
“That’s odd, though,” Phaia persisted. “Don’t you suspect something?”
“Suspect something?”
“Yes, that he’s up to something—you know.”
“I—I don’t, really. What do you mean? He’s … he’s trying to court me, if that’s what you mean. But that’s not suspicious, just … well.”
“Unwelcome?” Phaia suggested archly.
“Oh, very much so, I’m afraid.”
Phaia glanced over her shoulder at Damiskos, eyes narrowed. He looked back at her blankly.
As they climbed the steep track toward the villa, he considered the question of what Aristokles was doing there. It was, as Phaia pointed out, odd. He had clearly come under some form of false pretences and was lying about more than one thing. To learn that Nione didn’t really know him at all but had invited him at the request of a friend—that was unsettling.
Had he really come expressly to court Nione, ready with imported Zashian jewellery to offer her? It was certainly possible. But it didn’t explain his bluster that morning about “things in motion.”
Damiskos could think of one way he might find out more.
He spent the rest of the day in a less sociable—and less enjoyable—version of the sort of thing Themistos had recommended to him when sending him to Laothalia. He worked up the courage to ask the steward if she could arrange a packed lunch for him, and she did, without comment, and he took Xanthe out for a ride in the countryside around the villa. The cleared land of the estate was surrounded by thick scrubland, with a fringe of taller trees planted around the villa proper. There were not many places to ride, and he was preoccupied and out of sorts anyway. The lunch, which was excellent, was the only high point.
In the evening they dined outdoors again. Gelon was not there, but Varazda stood against a column behind Aristokles’s couch. His hair was done up like a scourge again today, and he wore a sleeveless coat of bright blue silk embroidered with poppies over a shirt of paler blue. His trousers matched the colour of the embroidered poppies. Damiskos thought that he looked tired.
Several times in the course of the meal, Damiskos found himself looking at Varazda and realizing that Varazda had noticed him doing it. Finally, towards the end of the meal, Damiskos looked across the couches and saw Varazda’s eyes on him. The eunuch tipped his head discreetly toward the twilit garden beyond the summer dining room. Damiskos tried to convey that he had got the message without being too obvious about it. He didn’t dare look at his fellow diners to see if he had succeeded. He waited, wine cup frozen in his hand, to see what Varazda would do.
Varazda was leaning down to speak to Aristokles, and Aristokles was nodding and reaching up to pat his attendant on the arm, gently dismissing him. Varazda moved around behind the couches and slipped out into the garden. Damiskos finished his wine.
“I think I had better … had better head to my room,” he said, reaching for his sandals.
“Of course,” said Nione, just as Eurydemos said, “So soon?” and Kleitos said, “What, already?”
Damiskos mustered a yawn. “I’m … rather tired.”
“Not to worry,” said Nione. “You are supposed to be on holiday, after all. Take the opportunity to rest.”
Helenos was yawning too, and murmured something about following his example. Damiskos got his sandals on and made his escape back toward the house.
Varazda materialized from the shadows at the head of the passage that led into the atrium. Exactly like a court eunuch in a Zashian romance, Damiskos thought. Varazda disappeared down the passage, and Damiskos followed.
A lamp was burning halfway down the short corridor. Varazda stopped before reaching its pool of warm light, still in the shadows. He turned to Damiskos.
“So. What do you want?” He spoke Zashian, with his courtier’s accent.
“Want?” Damiskos repeated.
“You’ve been looking at me all evening.”
“Divine Terza,” Damiskos swore. “It was so obvious?”
“Maybe only to me.” He managed to make that sound patronizing.
“I—just—I wished to talk to you.” Damiskos’s Zashian was stilted and rusty, but he did his best.
“Yes,” said Varazda, with an air of great patience. “So I gathered. We are talking now.”
“Yes.”
This was a different person than the one who had thanked him the night before, who had looked surprised when Damiskos apologized. This was the same lacquered rudeness that had made Damiskos dislike Varazda initially. Only now Damiskos knew there was more to him than this.
“And?” Varazda prompted. “Perhaps you wish to remind me that you saved me from a flogging—or worse—this morning?”
“I told the truth about what I had seen—but you couldn’t have been flogged, you know. You’re no longer enslaved.”
“True.”
“I was in the army for a long time,” Damiskos offered. “Sometimes I forget that I can’t be reported for dereliction of duty anymore.”
Varazda leaned one shoulder against the wall. It was a relaxed pose, but he didn’t look relaxed. Damiskos found himself wishing that he could see him better, without the concealing shadows.
“Well?” Varazda prompted again. “What … do … you … want?”
“I don’t—Well. There is one thing. Something I wanted to ask you.”
There was a pause. Damiskos could not read Varazda’s expression in the dark, but he didn’t need to see him to feel the tension coming off him. Obviously Damiskos had said something wrong, but he couldn’t work out what.
He wanted to offer some kind of help, but didn’t know how to do it in a way that wouldn’t seem both condescending and overbearing. Besides, he had so little idea of what was going on here. He wasn’t sure whether to say, “I’ve got my eye on you two,” or “Call on me if you need anything.”
“Yes?” said Varazda finally.
A female slave emerged from the dark atrium and slipped past them. Damiskos waited for her to exit to the garden.
“We shouldn’t talk here. It’s hardly private.”
“Hardly.”
There was another pause. Varazda seemed to be waiting for something. Then abruptly he pushed himself away from the wall, hennaed fingers flicking back a stray braid.
“Lead the way,” he said. He had switched to Pseuchaian too; it didn’t put him at a disadvantage.
Damiskos took the lamp from its bracket and went down the hall and around the corner to the library anteroom, where he opened the door. Varazda stopped, a faint look of surprise on his face. He had obviously expected them to go somewhere else.
“Oh,” said Damiskos. “I forgot, I still have your handkerchief. Come, I’ll give it back to you.”
He led the way to his own door and held it open, noticing as Varazda walked through it that his posture and movements were much more masculine than they had seemed earlier, almost stiffly so.
“It’s right here,” Damiskos said, closing the door and gesturing toward the shrine in the corner.
Varazda frowned. “You appear to have dedicated it to your deity. I would not dream of taking it.” He walked closer and leaned in to inspect the figure in the shrine.
Damiskos plucked the handkerchief off the unlit incense burner and held it out. “I didn’t dedicate your handkerchief. Just the scent on it.”
He gritted his teeth in anticipation of whatever delicately snide comment was coming. Zashians loved to make jokes about the number and behaviour of Pseuchaian gods and the rituals with which they were worshipped.
“Oh.” Varazda took the handkerchief. “I’m sure Terza will have appreciated it. It’s very expensive.” He tucked the colourful cloth back into his sash. “And … your question?”
“I know it’s none of my affair, but … last night, Gelon tried to force himself on you, didn’t he?” He didn’t believe Aristokles’s assertion to the contrary, any more than he had believed Gelon’s weird, weak story about what had happened.
Varazda’s eyebrows went up. He had elegant, effeminate eyebrows, well matched to his painted eyes. “He didn’t, no. What gave you that idea?”
Now Damiskos was completely at a loss—and more than a little embarrassed. What had given him the idea?
“I—I don’t know, I just … ”
In fact, he remembered very clearly. He had looked at Varazda in the dark and been struck by how beautiful he was. Somehow this had suggested what Gelon’s motivation must have been. He could see now that this didn’t really make sense.
“Because he was carrying on about Kossian lovers at dinner?” Varazda suggested. “Did that seem a little pointed? Well, it doesn’t matter. That wasn’t what happened.”
“That’s—that’s good. I wouldn’t have said anything, only I thought … you hadn’t told your master—former master, and that you ought to, because … But if that wasn’t what happened, then … That’s good.”
“Is it?” Varazda’s tone was very dry.
“Yes, but—what did happen?”
“What did happen … ” Varazda considered him thoughtfully for a moment, clearly deciding what to tell him—clearly not caring that it was obvious this was what he was doing. “Aristokles wanted to visit the kitchen for a snack. I was waiting for him in the yard, alone, and Gelon snuck up on me and threatened me with a knife. We fought briefly—he found me more of an opponent than he had expected—and then you arrived, and you know the rest.”
“He ambushed you? But—immortal gods—why? Do you have any idea?”
“Mm. I have some idea.”
Damiskos looked at him expectantly. “And?”
“I appreciate that you’re trying to make this your business, First Spear. I’m grateful for your intervention last night, and for your defence today. But it isn’t, really. Your business.”
“Ah,” said Damiskos, chastened and—once again—embarrassed. Also annoyed, but he thought Varazda was being deliberately annoying, and he wished he knew why. “Well. You can’t say fairer than that, I guess.”
Varazda made his courtly little gesture.
“Having said that … ” Damiskos began.
“Yes?”
“Having said that, your patron is obviously up to something under my friend’s roof. You’ve more or less admitted as much, though it was already clear enough before you did. I don’t want harm to come to Nione, but I also wouldn’t wish to see you hurt—and you’ve obviously already been put in danger. I don’t think Aristokles is doing much to look out for you. I want you to know that if you need help, you can count on me.
“Also, if you’re up to something even slightly shady in my friend’s house, be assured that I will stand in your way.”
Varazda had been looking more and more surprised throughout Damiskos’s speech, and at the end he actually smiled, a broad, genuine, captivating smile.
“What was the phrase you just used? ‘You can’t say fairer than that’?”
Varazda moved toward the door, and Damiskos followed. He didn’t want to leave it like this. He sought for something more to say, something that might help to get them on the same side.
“If you’re showing loyalty to Aristokles because … ”
Varazda’s hand
was on the door handle. He looked back, his expression guarded again. “Because … ”
“Because you’re lovers. I mean, I assume you are, and … ”
“Holy God.” Varazda dropped back into Zashian for the oath, and his accent was briefly provincial, no longer the polished syllables of the court. “You never stop. That is irrelevant to you, First Spear. That is the very definition of none of your business. Go back to negotiating about your rotting fish guts, or whatever it is, and forget about me and Aristokles.”
He pulled open the door, and would have slipped out and closed it behind him in one motion if Damiskos hadn’t caught it. Instead the two of them were framed there in the lamplight from the room, in full view of Helenos, who was crossing the atrium, headed for the stairs.
“Goodness,” said Helenos mildly, stopping to give them a humorous look. “I'm sure this can’t be what it looks like.”
“Certainly not, we were—”
“Don't be silly,” said Varazda, in a girlish tone and thick Zashian accent that Damiskos had not heard before. “Of course it is just what it looks like.”
And he turned in the doorway and lightly, precisely kissed Damiskos on the lips.
“Good night, First Spear.”
CHAPTER V
SOMEHOW DAMISKOS MANAGED to get the door shut without looking at Helenos. What his own face might have betrayed he had no idea, but he had to hope that between the lamplight behind him and the shadows in the atrium, it had not been much. At least he could be reasonably sure that it hadn’t been dismay or disgust.
The kiss lingered on his senses like a vanished phrase of music, tantalizing and irrecoverable. The cool softness of Varazda’s lips; the tiny, fleeting brush of his fingertips along Damiskos’s jaw; the scent that he wore, citrus and something spicy, neither masculine nor feminine. Damiskos felt a warmth sinking into the core of his being, as if that strange moment echoed in some hollow place inside him.