Page 7 of Something Human

It was no more than he’d expected. The Karhan tribes were dead-set against what they called “unnatural lusts” and “men making themselves into women.” They all had different names for it, which they used as terms of the gravest insult, and every tribe accused the others of practicing it or secretly tolerating it, but the truth was they all hated it about equally. Did that mean, by some kind of backwards logic, that for a Luth to invite another man to share a bed—not a big bed, meant for sharing, but a cozy single bed—was entirely innocent, because anything else was unthinkable?

It wouldn’t have worked that way in Pheme, or Tios. You’d have to be specific—“Just to sleep, mind you!”—if that was really all you intended. “I’m a ladies’ man, mind you,” was what Adares would have said himself to convey the message. It was perhaps not strictly true, but it was what he would have said. As it was, he didn’t care to be the one to raise that subject. And, at the same time, he didn’t want to sleep on the floor.

“Thanks,” he said finally. He had vague thoughts about washing, changing out of his muddy tunic, seeing if he could find soap or clean clothes in the priests’ quarters, but all of that seemed suddenly impossibly tiring. “I do think I could sleep,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed to unfasten his boots. “I thought I might need wine, but now I think I could sleep without it. Do you need wine?” He looked back at Rus, who was silent, trying to look noncommittal. “I’m sorry. Of course you do—you’ve just had a crossbow bolt taken out of you. What am I thinking?”

He retied his boots, fetched the lamp, and went looking for more wine. He found a bottle of something a bit better than the wretched Pyrian, and brought it back to the storeroom along with the cup that they had left out by the fountain. Rus propped himself up on one elbow to drink. Adares drank too, though not as much. Then he tugged his boots off finally, put out the lamp, and they lay down together. Adares did not undress, outside the covers or under them. He pulled the fur rug over himself and lay facing out into the room, his back to Rus, the blankets separating them.

“Don’t try anything funny,” said Rus drowsily. “I know about you Phemians.”

Adares laughed and thought he would say something witty in response, as soon as it came to him. He would think of something in a moment.

Before the moment was past, he was asleep.

CHAPTER III

HE DREAMT OF huge, muscled animals with glistening black hide and long, curved horns charging down hills, their heads thrown back, their eyes wide and white while they bellowed and snorted and tried to shake off the blue-and-white riders who clung to their backs. It was something he could not have dreamt before that day, when he had seen it, exactly like that.

He woke from that dream, mercifully, and slept again, this time more peacefully and for much longer. When he finally woke again, it was light. He was aware of a comforting warmth, a feeling both familiar and unfamiliar, but entirely pleasant. His head was filled with a smoky, foreign smell, mingled with the tang of sweat, and his face was buried in something soft and scratchy. He opened his eyes. He must have rolled over in his sleep; he was lying with his face in his bedfellow’s long, curly hair. And—it took him a moment longer to realize it—he had thrown one arm over Rus’s waist and was lying tight up against his side.

He froze, holding himself in place carefully. The blankets were still between them. He would roll away as slowly as possible to keep from waking Rus. He held his breath and started slowly to lift his arm.

Rus put his hand on Adares’s wrist, tugging it gently back down. He stirred and opened his eyes, and after a moment turned his head slightly to look at Adares. In the light, at such close quarters, Adares could see the faint glint of blond stubble on his jaw and the individual pin-pricks of blue ink that made up the tattoo over his cheekbone. He thought again what a strong, open, attractive face the young Luth had, and that the barbarian decoration just enhanced it, somehow. The blond curls were coarser than a woman’s, but still in their way quite lovely.

“Comfortable?” said Rus.

“Yes, quite. Um.” He pushed himself up and back a little. “This is just the sort of thing you were afraid of, isn’t it? If it’s any comfort, I did this in my sleep, and it’s not my normal—I mean, I was asleep.” He realized in time that saying, Generally, I prefer women might not be quite as reassuring as he would intend it to be.

Rus let go of his wrist, and Adares rolled away from him—as much as the bed would allow—and sat up all the way. His stiff, sore muscles howled in protest, and he gritted his teeth against the pain.

Rus said, “I wasn’t afraid.”

“Hm? No, no. No reason for you to be. Ugh. I feel as if I was run over by a cart. Oh, wait … ”

That earned him a tired laugh. Adares looked down at Rus. He had the kind of colouring that couldn’t conceal fatigue or illness at all. He was certainly in worse shape than Adares, but as Adares looked at him, he smiled cheerfully, a warm, uncomplicated expression, as if everything about that moment made sense to him, and made him happy. Adares thought that if the two of them had met on the battlefield yesterday an hour earlier than they did, there was every likelihood that one of them would have killed the other. He felt suddenly sick.

“Did you have bad dreams also?” Rus asked, his smile fading.

Adares nodded. “I dreamt about the bull-riders.”

“Ah.”

“They were terrifying. They took us by surprise, even though we knew to expect them. It’s one thing to hear that the Luth ride wild bulls into battle—it sounds fanciful, frankly, like something out of an overwritten novel. It’s another thing entirely to be faced with them actually charging across a valley at your army.”

Rus was silent for a moment. “We have hunted the bulls and their cows on our land for many, many generations,” he said, looking up at the ceiling. “We know their ways better than any of the southern tribes. We know that the spirit of Genhath—the god of rage and bloodshed, whom you would call Nepharos—that he enters the bulls when they are taken from the herd and deprived of their cows. Their rage is unquenchable, and if you know how to control it, even a little, you can terrify your enemy.”

“Well, it worked on us. My—we—everyone went to pieces. I’d say it cost us the battle, except we were also outnumbered and outclassed.”

“Yes,” said Rus simply. “Are you new to it?” he asked after a moment. “Warrior life?”

“I’m not a warrior, I’m—an administrator. I have a, uh … an officer’s rank—legate of the colonial legion—because of my post, and obviously I’ve had training, but never had to use it. Yesterday was the first time I ever saw battle.”

“Ah, I see.”

“That’s why it’s hit me so hard, I suppose. Career soldiers must have their ways of coping, but … ” He let the sentence trail off.

“I am sorry,” said Rus quietly.

Adares sat silent for a few minutes. “I’ll heat some water,” he said finally, turning and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Then we can wash properly, and I’ll rebandage your leg. In the meantime, I’ll get you some food.” He stood up and stretched, though it didn’t help much.