Page 6 of Something Human

“Your—uh—the language, whatever you call it. You speak it very well.” He also had a deep, musical voice, and a fascinating accent: growly barbarian consonants mixed with elegant Kossian vowels.

“Ah.”

And, for that matter, a handsome face, with a wide, shapely mouth, high cheekbones, and a nose that must once have been straight but had been broken and healed with a slight kink. He was clean-shaven, and though he didn’t remove the hair of his body like a Pseuchaian man, it was light, and as blond as the hair of his head, so it did nothing to obscure his tattoos.

“What did you think I meant?” Adares asked.

“I don’t know.” It was hard to tell whether that was true or not. “I am tired.”

“We were in a battle,” Adares reminded him.

“We were.”

“We almost died.”

“We did. Almost.” After a moment’s silence, as if he had been reviewing the conversation in his head and got back to the relevant part, he said, “Thank you. What you said about the language.”

“Oh, you’re welcome. Do you know how to get these open?” He held out the walnut he’d been trying unsuccessfully to crack while they had been talking. “I usually use a thing … you know … but I didn’t see one.”

“You use a thing,” Rus repeated.

“I’m tired.”

“Ah, yes. We were in a battle.”

“That’s right.”

“You have to take two of them and squeeze them together.”

“What?”

“The walnuts. Give them to me.”

Adares handed over the dish, and Rus took two nuts in one long-fingered hand and cracked them, apparently without effort.

“Will you look at that?” said Adares.

Rus handed him a cracked walnut.

“Of course,” said Adares, picking the meat out of the walnut, “I knew that your people traded with the old Kossian colony at Sapha, before it was abandoned. But that was decades ago. I didn’t realize anyone among the Luth would still speak Pseuchaian.”

“Ah, I see. We had many books from the Kossians, books of science and learning. We have no writing of our own, so we have kept the Kossian speech to use when we study their writing. Few of us speak it, only the kahar, but we use it among ourselves, as a dashak, a mark of distinction. Tch.” He shook his head as if annoyed with himself. “We mix in a lot of Luth words when we speak, and I have to remember not to do that with you.” He yawned suddenly, hiding it behind his hand.

“I’ll help you to the bed,” Adares suggested, brushing fragments of walnut shell off his hands. “You’ll be more comfortable there.”

There was a moment’s pause. “Where will you sleep?”

“I’ll take that fur, if you don’t need it, and put it on the floor.”

“Ah, all right.”

Adares supported him across the room to the bed, helped him take off his boots, which fastened with odd, barbarian-style thongs and toggles, and spread the blankets over him, at his request, when he had lain down. Rus fumbled with something under the blanket for a moment, then pulled out his kilt and tossed it onto the floor. It was a single length of cloth that had been fastened with a heavy gold pin. Adares was privately amused that he’d felt the need to take it off under the blankets, especially since he had a loincloth under it.

“Comfortable?”

“Yes.” Rus settled himself carefully, to avoid moving his injured leg. “Look,” he said, patting the blanket beside him. “There’s room for two. Don’t sleep on the floor.”

Adares hesitated. He thought he’d got Rus’s measure a minute ago with all that fuss over the compliment he hadn’t understood, and then the coy little display of undressing under the covers.