Page 20 of Sword Dance

Varazda was stripping off his coat in front of the fountain set into the wall of the slave quarters. He wore dark trousers under it and no shirt. It was a little surprising, Damiskos thought, that he would strip down more or less in public. Zashians were peculiarly reluctant about displaying skin; it was one way they held themselves distinct from the barbaric westerners. And after all, most of the kingdom was cold for large parts of the year, so they could afford their taboos.

Varazda scooped up water from the fountain, splashed his face, and ran his wet hands over his throat and underneath the heavy fall of his hair. He looked up and saw Damiskos. He snatched up his coat exactly like a nymph caught bathing by a satyr.

Damiskos started and gabbled out an apology. Gods. He’d just been thinking that Zashians had different customs; he should have had the decency not to sneak up on Varazda when he was half naked. Not that he’d intended to sneak up, of course, but that must have been what it looked like.

Varazda had tossed down his coat and was simply glaring at Damiskos now, and Damiskos wondered if he should back away, or if he had already been standing there for too long to do that, or what in the world he should do.

Somehow it didn’t help that Varazda stripped to the waist was absolutely a sight that would have been worth sneaking up to see. He was thin but very fit, the muscles of his arms and torso crisply defined under his pale skin. It was not surprising, of course, after seeing him dance, but it was a beautiful contrast with the flowing grace that he presented when fully clothed.

“I’m sorry,” Damiskos repeated leadenly. He realized Varazda was probably less embarrassed to have been caught without his shirt than annoyed at having been startled into acting as if he was embarrassed.

Varazda narrowed his eyes at him. “For what?”

Really, the fellow was impossible. “For—for—I don’t know.” He gestured unhelpfully. “You seem offended by something, and I’m sorry for it. I saw you dancing just now. It was very impressive.” He sought for something more specific to say. “The swords that you use, are they weighted like real swords, or … ”

The swords were lying across the corner of the fountain. Varazda reached back and picked one up and tossed it to Damiskos. He caught it awkwardly.

“Ah,” he said, weighing it in his hand. “They are real swords. I see.”

“They’re not very sharp,” Varazda admitted.

Damiskos turned the blade to catch the light from the yard. It was beautifully crafted, made of bronze, and looked as if it might be quite old. “Not completely dull, either.”

He lifted the sword in his right hand, put his left on his hip, angling his body and the point of the blade in the best approximation of shu, the “ready” stance, that he could remember.

“It’s been a few years,” he said ruefully.

Varazda picked up the other sword. His stance was elegant and precise—and he held it for only a moment before his sword flashed out and rang against Damiskos’s. Blade skittered against blade, and the tip of Varazda’s sword caught in the tracery of Damiskos’s hilt, gave a sharp twist, and sent the sword spinning out of his hand to clatter on the stones of the yard.

“Nicely done,” said Damiskos. He limped out into the yard to retrieve the sword.

Varazda dropped his sword’s point. “Mm. It’s a trick, and you were ready for it—you let go just as I caught the hilt.”

Damiskos shrugged. “Makes the sword fly further—and prevents me getting a sprained wrist.”

“I wasn’t trying to give you a sprained wrist. I’m aware I’m no match for you. I don’t really know how to fight—just tricks like that.”

Damiskos handed him back his sword, and Varazda laid both weapons on the edge of the fountain again.

“I used to be pretty good with a Zashian blade,” Damiskos said, “but it was only what you might call a hobby—professionally, of course, I used a Pseuchaian short sword.” He still wore one, much of the time, but only as a mark of status, a familiar weight at his side. “And of course, on horseback a spear and shield. The sword being only for close combat … ”

He realized he was on the verge of becoming boring—if not well past it. He cleared his throat. “I haven’t had much call to draw any kind of blade in the last five years.” And he wasn’t much use with one now either, with one knee unable to bend even halfway.

They stood a moment longer, regarding one another. The moment was different, somehow. Not less tense than their previous encounters, perhaps, but tense in a different way.

Damiskos remembered he had wanted to assure Varazda that he hadn’t put the wrong interpretation on that kiss in the doorway. He quickly decided this was not the right time for that.

It was Varazda who broke the silence—which, after all, had not gone on very long. “I have work to do. Was there something you wanted?”

“Yes. I mean no—I just happened by, and—yes, I’ll leave you to it. I really did enjoy the dance.”

“Thank you,” said Varazda in Zashian. “You are very kind.”

* * *

He went back into the house and asked the young slave at the door, Niko, whether the mistress was back yet. Niko didn’t know.

A female slave was coming down the stairs with a tray.