Saffron Alley

by A. J. Demas

  Dami nodded, almost meekly. After a moment, he said, “You know, Ariston gave me a little speech about not breaking your heart before he tried to flee into the night.”

  “He did?”

  “Well, not in so many words, but that was what it amounted to. He professed to be concerned about your ‘reputation’—but I really think he was more worried about … about you. Your happiness.” He paused for a moment, then said, in a voice strained with anxiety, “I know I will have some work to do to earn their trust, after this. I hope—I hope I still can.”

  Varazda sighed. He knew any reassurance he could offer now wouldn’t come out sounding convincing, so he said nothing.

  Yazata came back downstairs. He stood in the doorway looking in at the two of them, arms folded, expression resolute. A bruise was forming on his forehead where it had made impact against Damiskos’s.

  Varazda tried to think when he had last seen Yazata like this. He had, though it hadn’t happened often, in the years that they had known one another. Yazata did not get angry easily, did not usually show it even when he was angry, because, as he had once told Varazda, strong emotion of any kind made him uncomfortable. He was an easy person to live with, ordinarily.

  Varazda got up from the table. “I might sit up a while,” he said, pointedly looking away from Yazata to Damiskos. “But you should get some sleep.”

  Damiskos nodded in that way that made you feel like his commanding officer, and levered himself up from the table. He was moving more stiffly than usual, and his lighter skin showed the bruising over his brow even more strikingly.

  “Are you all right?” Varazda asked.

  A look of startled guilt passed across Yazata’s face, a much more Yazata-like expression than the stern glare.

  “Mm?” said Damiskos. “Oh, I’ll be fine. Not that I want to take you on again any time soon, sir,” he added with a wry smile at Yazata.

  Yazata, of course, did not smile back. After the briefest hesitation, Damiskos leaned across the table to kiss Varazda’s cheek lightly. He straightened up, said good night in Zashian, and turned toward his bedroom.

  “God guard your sleeping and your waking,” said Varazda without thinking.

  Dami looked back over his shoulder and flashed a smile.

  When he was gone, Yazata took a couple of steps into the room, the sternness disappearing from his expression.

  “What is it?” he hissed urgently.

  “What?” Varazda demanded.

  Yazata made a shushing gesture. “My dear, what is happening to you? What has happened to you? You can tell me.”

  Varazda gave him a mystified frown. These were questions that he thought, more properly, he should have been asking Yazata.

  “Can I? It hasn’t seemed that way. Which—” He unbent, with an effort. “—is fine. We’re not alike, in this respect. If you thought we were … I am sorry.” He hadn’t thought that was the case; he had thought his friend understood him better than that.

  Now Yazata looked confused. Finally he said, “I do have experience of … this type of thing. I can help.”

  “Are we talking about the same thing?” Varazda asked, after another confused moment. He wondered fleetingly whether he was half-asleep already.

  “Yes.” Yazata glanced pointedly toward the door of Dami’s room.

  At that moment the door opened, and Dami shooed the cat out. He gave the two of them a questioning look, then shut the door.

  “Remember what I said,” Yazata whispered earnestly, then turned and fled up the stairs on his side of the house.

  On the edge of falling asleep where he sat, Varazda remembered when he had last seen Yazata similarly angry. It had been a couple of years ago, when Maia moved in across the street and they first met her worthless husband, Stamos. Yazata hadn’t tried to hit him with a frying pan, but then there hadn’t been any frying pans handy; it was hard to say what might have happened if there had been.

  Chapter 5

  Varazda woke on a divan in the sitting room and for a moment couldn’t remember what he was doing there. He pushed himself up and raked his hair out of his face. The events of the previous night came back to him. He groaned.

  The room was bright with sun, the house quiet around him. When he looked through the door to the kitchen, there was evidence that at least one person had breakfasted, and a bowl covered with a cloth on the table. He went back into the sitting room and eased open the door to Damiskos’s room, thinking he would like to look in at Dami sleeping.

  Of course Damiskos was awake, sitting on the bed with his good knee drawn up, looking out the window.

  “Good morning,” said Varazda.

  Damiskos smiled. “I like the flowers,” he said, indicating the bouquet on the window sill.

  “I’m glad. Remi and I picked them for you. Did you sleep … at all? ‘Well’ would be a stretch, I realize.”

  “Not too badly.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “No sign of Ariston?”

  “Not yet.”

  Dami nodded. “I, uh, thought I’d wait for you to wake before I ventured out. That’s probably cowardly … ”

  Varazda laughed wryly. “Not at all. It’s probably very wise.”

  The bowl on the table contained warm saffron buns. Dami sat at the table and buttered one while Varazda jogged upstairs to see whether Remi was still in bed.

  Her little alcove in his bedroom was empty, both her bed and his own neatly made. Varazda smiled to himself at this evidence of Yazata’s thoughtfulness—his love, in fact, for both of them. He went back downstairs.

  “These are good,” Dami said, holding up his half-eaten bun.

  “Have you not had saffron buns before?”

  “Yes, I just meant … er, they’re very good saffron buns.”

  This was clearly not what he had intended to say.

  “You mean,” Varazda guessed, “that you’re surprised there are no goose turds or, I suppose, fish sauce in them?”

  “I’m sure I deserve both, after last night,” said Dami, looking at the table, “but I didn’t mean to suggest that Yazata isn’t forgiving.”

  “He is,” said Varazda. Usually. “But it was brave of you to try the buns.”

  “I’m known for my courage. Is Remi still asleep?”

  “No, I think she’s gone out with Yaza.” He glanced through the open door to Yazata’s sitting room, which was empty. “I’m just going to check whether they’re outside.” He shrugged apologetically. “I like to know where she is.”

  He’d been some years older than Remi when he was abducted from his own family home, which had been a fortress far more secure than any of the houses in Saffron Alley. He never explained to anyone how this coloured the way he raised his own child.

  “Of course,” said Dami, getting up from the table himself, a second saffron bun in hand. He followed Varazda down the hall to the door.

  Varazda pulled open the front door just as the tall, bearded man on the doorstep was raising his hand to the knocker. It was hard to say which of them was more startled.

  “Marzana!”

  “Varazda, good morning.” Marzana collected himself more quickly.

  “Just the man I wanted to see.”

  “Yes, I daresay.” Then Marzana’s eyes widened as he caught sight of Damiskos over Varazda’s shoulder. “I, uh … ” He obviously forgot what he had been about to say.

  “Damiskos, this is my friend Marzana,” Varazda supplied quickly. “He’s chief officer of the city’s public watch. Marzana, this is Damiskos. He’s—”

  “Delighted to meet you,” Marzana interrupted, too heartily.

  He all but lunged to clasp Damiskos by the hand, and there were several false starts before they sorted out whether they were going to shake hands in the Pseuchaian fashion or the Zashian—rendered even more complicated by the fact that Dami was still holding a buttered saffron bun—and they both laughed a little too loudly about it.

  From the street Varazda heard a
familiar squeal, and looking past Marzana he saw Remi chasing one of Maia’s daughters, Selene waddling after her, and Yazata sitting on the steps of Maia’s house with Maia, shelling peas and talking earnestly. Varazda wondered if Yazata had come up with a sufficiently Zashian way of asking whether her husband was due home. He hadn’t heard whether the gambit with the eggs had been successful or not.

  Maia was a tiny, blonde woman who could not have been more of a contrast to Yazata in appearance, but in temperament they were extremely alike and had been close friends ever since her family moved to Saffron Alley. The two of them glanced up at Varazda at the same moment, waved, and then went on talking. About him, presumably. They weren’t even trying to be subtle about it.

  That part of his family accounted for, Varazda turned to beckon Marzana into the house. He left the door open behind him.

  Marzana followed him down the hall, and Damiskos followed Marzana. No one said anything until they were in the kitchen, and then the best Varazda could do was, “Would you like a saffron bun?”

  “Thank you, no,” said Marzana.

  There was a moment’s awkward silence. Marzana glanced at Dami, who was looking a little warily at him. Marzana was about his size, and very Zashian-looking, though he had lived in Boukos for nine years and had a Boukossian wife and Boukossian sons. He still wore his hair long, his beard hennaed where it had gone grey, and dressed in trousers more often than not. He could probably tell that Damiskos was an ex-soldier, because he was one himself; he even walked with a limp, though it was very slight compared to Dami’s.

  “Yes,” said Marzana, drawing himself up a little as if recalling himself to the matter at hand. “The reason I called this morning. Do you have any idea why Tash presented himself to my watchmen last night claiming to have killed a man who is not dead?”

  They convinced Marzana to take a saffron bun after all and sit at the table with them while they explained what had happened the previous night. He in turn told them what he knew.

  “Tash presented himself at the watch-house in the early hours of the morning. The night shift was about to go off duty, and I had not yet arrived. Apparently the first words out of his mouth were, ‘If you’re looking for the murderer of Themistokles Glyptikos, I am he.’ He seemed nonplussed to learn that they were not looking for Themistokles’s murderer. He refused to explain how or why he had done the murder—he didn’t even seem sure it had been a murder rather than, say, an accident.

  “My men did their duty and detained him while they sent some of their fellows to Themistokles’s house to investigate. By this time the sun was up, and when they knocked at the door, Themistokles answered. He was up early, working in his studio. He said he had passed a peaceful night and had no altercations with anyone, nor seen any sign of a break-in or other foul play about his house.

  “When my men described Tash, without revealing what he had told them, Themistokles readily identified his student and asked whether Tash was in some trouble as if it surprised him. As, indeed, it surprised me when I heard about it.

  “When the men returned from Themistokles’s to say that he seemed in good health for a murder victim, Tash had nothing at all to say for himself—refused to utter a word. They released him from the cells, not knowing what else to do, and left him in a courtyard room awaiting my arrival. By the time I got there, of course, he was gone. I take it he hasn’t been back here?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” said Varazda. “So Themistokles is alive and well.”

  “The last I heard. I left a guard on his door for the sake of caution. And obviously I want to speak to Tash to find out what this is about.”

  “Perhaps he killed someone else thinking it was Themistokles,” Damiskos suggested.

  “That is what I suspect,” said Marzana, nodding. “A fight in the dark or some such thing.”

  “He was clearly distraught about it,” Dami went on. “He didn’t know whether he’d meant to do it or not. As one doesn’t, sometimes, in the heat of the moment.”

  “Exactly. One strikes a killing blow knowing that it may kill, yet not desiring the other man’s death. He feels confused.”

  “For some reason he thinks it was his master that he struck. Perhaps he was expecting to meet him in a certain place, and when someone else—a thief, say—showed up instead, he struck out in his own defence without realizing his mistake.”

  “I wonder if he had some reason to fear his master. I have never heard anything credible against Themistokles.”

  “I think Ariston was simply confused,” Damiskos said.

  “Ariston?”

  “Tash. He calls himself Ariston—at least he did to me when we met last night.”

  “Ah. That’s new.” Marzana looked at Varazda, eyebrows raised. Varazda shrugged. “Right. Well ... Ariston ... kills this other man, doesn’t take the time to check who it is—”

  “Perhaps he can’t because the body ended up in the river. No, you don’t have a river here.”

  “In the harbour,” Marzana supplied. “Good thought. So he doesn’t actually know who it was, but he knows he’s dead, and he races off to turn himself in to the watch.” He looked over at Varazda. “You’re very quiet. What do you think?”

  “I think all that makes sense.” He’d been quiet because he was listening raptly to his friend and his lover finishing each other’s sentences. “Personally, I’d have thought he was protecting the person who really did kill Themistokles. But if Themistokles isn’t dead, obviously that won’t wash.”

  “Quite,” said Marzana.

  “Exactly,” said Damiskos at the same time.

  “In any case, we need to find him,” said Marzana. “Do you have any idea where he’d have gone if he didn’t come back here?”

  “He spends most of his time at Themistokles’s studio. I suppose you’ve been back there?

  “He’s not there. Is there … ” Marzana hesitated delicately.

  “A girl?” Dami supplied. “Or a boy?”

  Varazda sighed. “A girl. There’s always a girl. Sometimes there’s more than one girl. At the moment I believe there is very much only one—she’s a goddess, apparently, the lodestar of whatnot—but I’ve absolutely no idea who she is. Except … I can’t remember why, but I’ve formed the distinct impression that she’s older than T—than Ariston.” Dami’s courteous attention to referring to Tash by his chosen name reminded Varazda that he should do the same. “Less a girl, in fact, than a woman.”

  “That’s … not a great deal of help,” said Marzana, giving him a look.

  “I know. Sorry.”

  “I wonder,” said Dami, “if he’d have gone to this woman when he’s on the run from the law, though, if he worships the ground she treads on.”

  “Good point,” said Marzana.

  “Not my area,” said Varazda shortly. “But I suppose he might have gone to one of his friends. I know a few of them. I can go look for him.”

  “If you would,” said Marzana. “I’d like to get this cleared up.”

  “Of course. I’ll track him down. If he’s out there wandering around—I’m worried about him.”

  Marzana nodded. “I apologize for … ” His gaze flicked toward Damiskos, his expression slightly guilty. “I mean, you have a guest to entertain.”

  Dami cleared his throat. “Perhaps I can help. I feel it’s partly my fault he got away last night.”

  “You needn’t feel that,” said Varazda firmly.

  “I’d just as soon not have to put any of my men on this,” Marzana said. “We’ve a lot of work to do before the Asteria tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” Varazda repeated. “It is tomorrow, isn’t it? I believe I’d actually forgotten.”

  “You’re Phemian, aren’t you?” Marzana said to Dami. It was obvious enough from his looks and his accent. “Are you … a newcomer to Boukos?”

  “A visitor,” Damiskos explained equably. “It is not my first time in the city, but I have never been here for a festival before.”r />
  “We take our festivals very seriously,” said Marzana. “And how did you come to meet Varazda?”

  “At Laothalia in the summer,” Varazda supplied before Dami had time to worry what to say.

  At that the pieces obviously fell into place in Marzana’s mind. He looked at Damiskos with a sudden, startled respect. “You’re the Phemian officer Varazda spoke of. Of course! First Spear of the Second Koryphos?”

  Dami smiled embarrassedly. “I, uh, gather Varazda has talked about me.”

  “You saved his life,” said Marzana gravely. “All his friends are indebted to you.”

  “No, he—” Damiskos started to correct him, then stopped. “Did I save your life?”

  “Several times, I think,” said Varazda. “One doesn’t keep track.”

  “Some do,” said Marzana. “In any case”—He gave Dami a rather military nod of his own.—“it is an honour and pleasure to meet you.”

  After Marzana had left, Varazda went upstairs to dress, while Dami went to his room to do the same. Varazda was fastening his belt when he was startled by loud goose noises from downstairs, followed by a thump, and Damiskos’s voice calling, “Oi! A little help?”

  Feeling that this was beginning to become a habit, Varazda tore down the stairs to find Selene in the kitchen, flapping and hissing and making determined lunges at Dami, who had tidily barricaded himself behind the table, which he had flipped on its side.

  “Holy God, I’m sorry—how did she get in the house? Let me get Remi.”

  “Please.”

  He ran to the front of the house to find the door mysteriously closed. Opening it, he shouted out into the street for his daughter, who came running, wide-eyed with surprise.

  “Will you please get Selene out of the house?”

  “But—but Maia told me to put her in the house.”

  “What? Well—get her out again, please. She and Damiskos aren’t friends yet.”

  Remi scurried obediently into the kitchen and quieted her pet. Varazda looked across the street at Maia, who was still sitting on her doorstep with Yazata. She nodded at him with a strange expression that almost looked like reassurance. Not feeling up to analyzing what that was about, Varazda retreated into the house to supervise the removal of the goose and help Dami right the kitchen table.