The Pillar (6 page)

“Thank you, sir,” said Boro.

“Sir!” Igor laughed and executed an exaggerated bow. “Keep that up and I’ll decide I’m far too good to be a humble shoemaker. And then where will we be?”

With a happy wave to Boro, Igor walked to the door. Faris was at his side and opened it for him. “Thank you,” said Faris carefully, hoping Igor could sense his full gratitude, and not just for the shoes.

Igor set his hand on Faris’s shoulder. “I’m honored,” he replied. Long after he disappeared around the corner, Faris was still trying to figure out what he’d meant.

“C
AN
’
T
I
help with something, Faris? Please?”

Faris glanced up from his papers. “I can manage well on my own.”

“I know. But I can do things too. I maybe can’t do anything with those”—Boro waved his hands at the shelves full of herbs—“because I can’t read the labels. But I can sweep or cook or—”

“You don’t have to. You can rest.”

Boro blew an impatient puff of air. “Rest! I’ve done nothing but rest for… it’s been two weeks, hasn’t it? I’ve never been one to avoid hard work, not even when— I
like
to work. I’ve rested enough. I’ve lounged around in your bed like a king, I’ve eaten far too much of your food, I’ve dirtied all your linens and… please, Faris.”

Faris brushed the feather of his quill pen against his chin as he thought. It was a bad habit, and he ended up with ink stains on his palms more often than not. “Your walking has grown quite strong,” he said.

As if to demonstrate, Boro leapt up from the bed and hurried over to the table. The wounds on his buttocks and legs had continued to heal well, and his limp was almost imperceptible. “My arms are better too. I could fetch water, even, or—”

“How about a walk?”

Boro blinked at him. “A walk?”

“Just a short stroll. We could go to the kafana.”

“It’s… it’s allowed?”

Faris sighed. Despite his repeated reminders, Boro was having a hard time believing he was freed. “It’s allowed. And I’d guess you’d want to see a face other than mine for a change. I tend to be a little… solitary, but even I need a little social interaction now and then.”

“It’s been a long time since I… did anything like that. I’m not sure I’m fit for it.”

That made Faris snort slightly. “Believe me, compared to me,
anyone
is fit for it.” He put the pen down, stood, and stretched a little. “Do you want to go now?”

Boro looked caught between eagerness and panic. He nodded. “Yes. Please.”

It took several minutes for them to get ready. Boro’s boots were as nice as Igor had promised, and Boro looked very dashing in the blue cap. Faris hadn’t thought to find him a cloak, but as luck would have it, he had a spare. He gave Boro the newer one and took Enis’s old and slightly moth-eaten one for himself.

“Faris,” Boro began when he noticed the relative condition of their outerwear. But Faris ignored him and stepped out the door.

The sky was a clear, bright blue, but the air was cold enough to chill. The entire town looked hunkered down for the winter with shutters closed and chimneys smoking, and the green river rushed by as if in a hurry to reach the sea. Boro swiveled his head this way and that, making Faris realize he’d probably seen very little of Zidar. In fact, Faris still knew nothing about who Boro’s owner had been or where he’d been kept, or why he’d been punished. Boro never raised the issue, so neither had Faris.

“The bridge is a little steep. Do you need help climbing it?” Faris asked.

Boro gave him a quick, grateful smile. “No. I can manage.”

“Fine, but say something if your legs start to give. I don’t want to have to drag you all the way home.” And just in case, Faris walked close to him and kept a watchful eye. Which was good, because Boro wobbled slightly as they descended. Faris caught his arm, and Boro grunted in acknowledgment.

But perhaps a worse obstacle waited on the other side of the bridge: people. Not that anyone intentionally stood in their way. Some people ignored them, most stared, and a few called out greetings to Faris, who waved back. Boro stuck very close to his side, and Faris could hear his labored breathing. Still, he was proud that Boro kept his head up and shoulders square. It must have been hard. There were days when Faris couldn’t manage as much himself.

“It’s a bigger city than I expected,” Boro said very quietly.

“My end of it is quiet, but now we’re on the main street. It’s not really very big. You see the same people over and over.”

“My village was very small.”

Faris glanced at him, but Boro didn’t say anything more.

Neither of them had any need to see the square with the pillar, so Faris took them to the kafana by the back way. His usual table was free, but it was strange to sit there with someone else. Boro sat upright and stiff, darting his gaze from side to side. He flinched when Mirsada walked up.

Her face was as impassive as always. “Two coffees?”

“Boro? Coffee? Or do you prefer rakija?”

Mirsada said, “I make an herbal rakija from plants Faris brings me. It keeps you strong.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Faris said with a chuckle. “It just burns enough that everyone assumes it must be good for them.”

Boro’s voice was almost a whisper. “Coffee. Please.”

With a nod, Mirsada sailed away. About a quarter of the seats in the kafana were occupied, and the other customers looked at Faris and Boro but remained seated. “They… they know who I am,” said Boro.

“Yes.”

“But they don’t mind.”

“They’re probably thrilled. It gives them something new to gossip about. And Boro, they’d gossip about
anyone
new showing up. It doesn’t happen all that often, especially this time of year.” Also, they’d gossip about Faris not sitting alone for a change, but he didn’t say that.

In an effort to distract his table companion, Faris started telling the story of Ibro’s cough the year before and his attempt to self-medicate with a lavish dose of his mother’s herbal rakija. Fortunately, the boy hadn’t drunk enough to make himself truly sick, but he’d sat in the middle of the kafana and warbled tunes at the top of his voice until passing out. Whatever punishment Mirsada planned for the next morning was cancelled; evidently she felt that Ibro’s hours of groaning and vomiting were punishment enough. “I think it will be a long time before he tries liquor again,” Faris said.

It was strange. Faris rarely spoke so much, and he almost never told stories like this. But he enjoyed this one and felt comfortable with it. He especially liked the way Boro focused his entire attention on him, head slightly cocked and lips turned up in a tiny smile.

“I broke into my father’s ale when I was a boy,” Boro said. “I ended up as sick as Ibro, but my father didn’t pity me at all. He made me work twice as hard the next day. I thought my head would fall off.” It was the longest thing he’d said about his past, and he said it with only a hint of sadness.

“And that’s why you asked for coffee today?”

“Perhaps.”

As if on cue, Mirsada appeared with their drinks. She brought two pieces of baklava as well, even though Faris hadn’t asked for it. And maybe she took a moment or two longer than necessary to arrange the things on the table.

Boro cleared his throat. He stared down at his empty cup as he said very softly to Mirsada, “Thank you. For sav—”

“Those clothes fit you well,” she interrupted. “Your shoulders are broad enough to fill the tunic properly. You just need to put on a little weight.”

“This will help.” He pointed at the pastry.

Mirsada patted Faris’s shoulder, which was so unprecedented that he could only gape at her, and then she took her tray and walked away.

By the time the coffee and sweets were gone, Faris had told several more amusing tales and Boro was looking relaxed. Faris felt almost buoyant—he’d never enjoyed his coffee so much. It felt so unusually
normal
to sit with someone else in a kafana and talk and laugh. To… to have a friend.

Oh, good God.

“Are you tired?” Faris asked after they’d left through the back door. “Do you want to go home?”

For some reason, Boro gave him a blinding smile. It almost took Faris’s breath away. “It would be nice to stay out a little longer,” Boro said.

“Well… how about a visit to the barber?” He rubbed his chin. “I don’t like having a beard.”

Boro mirrored his action. “Nor do I.”

“Good. And I’d like a haircut too.”

“No!” Boro blushed and looked away. “I mean, um, you shouldn’t.”

And of course Faris was blushing right back, which was ridiculous. “Why not?”

“It’s… it’s winter. You don’t want your head to get cold.”

Bewildered, Faris decided not to point out that he wore a cap outdoors.

There were three barbers in Zidar, but Faris usually went to Safet. Yes, Safet’s shop was at the opposite end of town from Faris’s house, and yes, they had their longstanding disagreement about bleeding as a cure. But of the three, Safet had the steadiest blade. And when Enis had brought Faris there not long after rescuing him, Safet had never once hinted that barbering a thief was beneath him.

They walked slowly in deference to Boro’s healing body, but that was fine. It was pleasant just to stroll, despite the chill. As they neared one of the mosques, the muezzin began a call to prayers. They paused to look up at the minaret. “You don’t go?” Boro asked.

“I told you, I come from a mixed marriage. Neither faith stuck. You?”

“I went to church when I had to, but I always felt closer to God on my own land.” Boro sighed. “Maybe he’s still there. He certainly didn’t come with me here.”

Faris was still considering how to reply when a group of noisy people approached from behind. He and Boro turned to look. Six men were walking toward them, laughing loudly at some joke. Faris didn’t recognize them, but four carried swords and seemed to be in some sort of uniform, and the two loudest men were dressed in finer clothing than was usual for the townsfolk. Rich folk in from their hillside estates for some shopping, probably. Not a rare occurrence in Zidar.

Boro ducked his head and shrank back against the wall, and one of the unarmed men gave him a very long, hard look.

Both Boro and Faris sighed with a relief when the group swept by them and entered the mosque courtyard. But Boro seemed rooted in place, so Faris grabbed his arm and dragged him away.

“Are you all right?” he asked after they turned a corner.

“That man. He’s a friend of my owner.”

“You have no owner, remember? You’re as free as he is.”

Boro looked shaken and unconvinced.

“Let’s just go home,” Faris said gently. “We can stop for fresh bread on the way and—”

“No. Let’s go to the barber. Please.” His jaw was set so tightly that Faris could see the muscles bunch.

Faris led the way to Safet, who shaved Boro and then Faris in his usual silence, then refused any payment. Faris did not get his hair cut.

As they reached the bridge again, Boro looked drawn and weak and didn’t protest when Faris took his arm. In fact, as they descended, Boro wrapped his arm around Faris’s waist, allowing him to bear much of his weight. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“It was quite an outing for you. We’ll get back and you can rest while I heat some water. You can bathe, if you like.”

“I’d rather watch you.”

Faris stumbled on a cobblestone, nearly toppling them both.

B
ORO
WASHED
himself while Faris made some garlicky soup, cleaned his boots, and carefully avoided looking in the direction of the naked man sitting on the bed. Boro didn’t want to put his soiled clothing back on his clean body, so he wrapped a blanket around himself like a Roman toga.

“I can bring your clothes to my laundry woman now, but they won’t be ready until tomorrow,” Faris said.

“The blanket will do until then. I don’t think we were planning another stroll today.”

Faris tossed some noodles into the soup before glancing over. Boro looked exhausted. “No,” said Faris. “Not today.”

“I’m sorry. Because of me you’ve been confined.”

“I don’t get out much anyway, especially this time of year.” Faris stirred the pot with his big spoon, watching the soup bubble and froth. “When the weather’s better, I like to go up in the hills to collect plants.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It is. The forest always smells good, and if I climb high enough, the views are pretty.” He paused. “Soon you’ll be strong enough to walk anywhere you like.”

Boro didn’t reply. After a few minutes, Faris ladled the soup into a pair of large bowls. He tore off a couple hunks from the loaf of stale bread, which would be fine once dipped into the soup. He set his bowl on the table and started toward the bed with the other, but Boro stood. “Can I join you?”

“Of course.”

They sat opposite one another, slurping. Boro fished out a bone with his spoon, then held it with his fingers as he gnawed the shreds of meat. He never intimated what he’d been fed by his owner, but Faris had the definite impression that the food had been sparing and of poor quality. It made him happy to see Boro eating well.

“Faris?”

Boro’s voice was so hesitant that Faris frowned. “What?”

“What… what happens to me now? Once I’m well, I mean.”

“I don’t…. You’re free.”

Boro dropped the bone into his bowl. “You keep saying that. What does it mean?”

“It means nobody owns you. You can do whatever you want. You can go home.”

“Home.” Maybe Boro intended to laugh, but it sounded more like a sob.

“Your family—”

“Gone.” Boro looked suddenly fierce enough to make Faris uneasy. “I was once rich as a king, although I didn’t know it. I had parents, brothers and sisters. I had a pretty wife and a baby girl who looked just like her mother. I had a house—it was about the same size as yours, but with two rooms instead of one. A red tile roof. We lived on the second floor, and underneath we kept a few goats and some chickens. I had a vineyard that produced more stones than grapes, but everyone agreed my wine was the best. I had a wheel where I made pots much better than this
shit
.” He shoved his bowl off the table. It crashed against the floor, breaking into pieces and splattering soup everywhere. Some of the warm liquid splashed against Faris’s leg and soaked through his breeches.