Dragonfly Excerpt

“How is money?”

Inandré wished Hanithi would not ask. Money was always a sensitive topic among akhari. Instead, he would have preferred a leisurely visit in his friend’s salon.

Since arriving six months ago, Inandré had learned thrift. With money from the sale of his house in Tajhaan, and property values more affordable in provincial Marreh, he was able to afford lodgings in a good neighborhood. Where he could, he sold a few pieces of jewelry to augment his funds, but his situation could not last forever. He needed a wealthy patron to pursue the extravagant lifestyle genteel society expected of a recently manumitted elite bed-slave. An akharu from the capital, trained in one of the realm’s finest schools, should have attracted instant attention.

Instead, he had become a pariah.

“I have enough to live on for now,” he answered quietly.

Hanithi paused while a slave set refreshments before them. After the spring rains, the air was cool, beckoning people outside, and today both young men shed their heavier, more formal attire for pleated linen. A brilliant green and cobalt tiled fountain trickled in the middle of the courtyard. Nearby, a slave tended a potted orange tree. “What about that rich admirer of yours?”

“I have no news to share with you.” By now, there should have been the offer of a contract. Inandré found Shapur ked Khaturin pleasant enough; the man made no demands upon him and bestowed occasional small presents. A year earlier, Inandré would have dismissed the merchant as a dismal prospect, an unambitious man who doted too much on the memory of his dead wife. Now Shapur was all he had, and time was passing. At twenty, a male akharu had but a handful of years left in which to acquire lucrative contacts in some trade, invest whatever his patron bestowed upon him, and hopefully make his fortune.

Hanithi leaned forward to grasp his arm. “You have not been persistent, have you?”

“I give him whatever he requires.”

Hanithi hissed his disapproval. “My dear, if you are taking him to bed without a contract—”

Inandré shook his head. Shapur desired only his conversation—or rather, a sympathetic ear to listen to his troubles—and that was all Inandré wanted to give him. Of course it was not normal, but his ordeal last summer in Akkil had smothered his natural sensuality. “He visits me. We talk. Nothing happens.”

“And so here you are.”

“I came because you invited me,” Inandré pointed out. “I would never impose you on for anything.”

“I am not in a position to offer,” murmured Hanithi. “Forgive me, but you know how Ghazri feels about the matter. Right now, he tolerates my seeing you. I am afraid if I asked for more, he would cut your visits off completely.”

Inandré stiffened. To hear his dearest friend speak so, when he had so few friends or willing acquaintances nowadays, stung. “I had no idea he felt that strongly.”

Of course he had. Ghazri ked Menash bore him no love, never mind that he had been the innocent victim of a powerful, unscrupulous noble. His crime was making a sordid situation public by pressing charges; the resulting scandal tainted his reputation so badly that he could not escape the scrutiny, even in Marreh.

Hearing that his attacker now suffered from an incurable sexual disease did little to comfort him; it had happened too late to make any difference. Hanithi reached across to caress his arm. “I never meant it that way. I had to fight for the privilege of seeing you. That is how precious your friendship is to me. I would give you money if I could, if I thought it would help you, but what you really need is a patron.”

“That is easier said than done,” replied Inandré.

“So why does Shapur not offer? It is not—surely he already knows?” Hanithi avoided the direct reference. “It cannot possibly bother him, or he would have stopped seeing you long ago. Unless…” Chewing his bottom lip, frowning, he shook his head. “Perhaps others have leaned on him.”

Many nights Inandré lay awake wondering the same thing. Shapur claimed not to care what his colleagues said or thought, but perhaps he merely said so to avoid an unpleasant scene. Then why does he not end it? Why continue to visit me, or send notes? “I do not know, and I do not wish to ask him.”