Page 23 of Sword Dance

“No, no.” Varazda waved his free hand irritably. “Really. Who do you really work for.”

“I don’t … I don’t think I understand. Do you think I am lying to you?”

Varazda’s dark eyes were inscrutable. “No. I see. You are actually here on behalf of the Master Provisioner of the Phemian legions to buy fish sauce.”

“Is there something about that that’s hard to believe? Eurydemos’s students seemed to think it was funny—like something out of a modern novel, they said.”

Varazda’s shapely eyebrows went up. “The comedy of the absurd? They have a point. That’s not what I was getting at, though. I’m trying to account for your interest in Aristokles and me.”

“I’m not interested in Aristokles. Nor—nor in you.” That didn’t come out sounding nearly as convincing as he wanted, or as polite. “I mean … ”

Varazda sighed. “I, ah … Aristokles is here on behalf of the Boukossian government.”

Damiskos blinked at him for a moment. “He what? Doing what? Courting Nione?”

“No,” said Varazda dryly. “That part is what you might call extra-curricular.”

“Oh. So he’s—he’s what? A spy?”

“Something like that.” He seemed to be thinking for a moment, then he nodded decisively. “Look, I’ll tell you the whole story, if you want. I probably owe you an explanation after that … after last night.” He looked through the open door into his room for a moment. “You’d better come in.”

The room beyond the door was small and very full of Varazda’s belongings. There were two beds, but only one had a mattress; evidently Varazda had the room to himself.

For someone who had, presumably, been a domestic slave, he was surprisingly untidy. There was a trunk against the opposite wall, its lid open, clothes flopping out of it. More clothes were draped over the disused bed, along with a box containing a jumble of jewelry and a makeup kit: little brushes, vials, and pots of colour. There was a faint scent of incense in the air.

Varazda tossed the coverlet halfheartedly over his own bed and pushed aside some of the clothes on the other bed to make room for Damiskos to sit. Damiskos sat.

“If Aristokles didn’t actually come here to court Nione—those earrings he gave her, were they … ”

Varazda made a face. He sat cross-legged on the end of his own bed. “They were mine. My favourite pair. I made him promise to get me a replacement when we’re back in Boukos.”

“Ah.” Made him promise? None of your business, First Spear, Damiskos reminded himself.

“So,” said Varazda, “I said I’d tell you the whole story. I hope it goes without saying that this is in utter, utter confidence?”

“Of course.”

“Good. You know Eurydemos opened a school in Boukos about a year ago?”

“I think someone mentioned that.”

“It’s very popular—he was flooded with students as soon as he opened. As far as anyone knew, what they were teaching there was nothing out of the ordinary. Whatever it is they normally teach in these places.” He waved a hand airily. “Don’t ask me—I’m a dancer, not a philosopher. Anyway, a week ago there was a riot.”

“A riot? In Boukos?” He hadn’t known such things happened there.

“Well, probably not something you’d consider a riot in Pheme. A disturbance. Nobody was trampled to death in the streets. It started in the Vintners’ District, near Eurydemos’s school, and we think—the captain of the public watch thinks—some of Eurydemos’s students started it. At the very least, they were heavily involved. They broke into the home of a Zashian merchant, looted a couple of shops that stock Zashian goods, and finally marched across town and tried to set fire to our embassy.”

“No! But that’s appalling!” Damiskos was shocked. “An anti-Zashian riot? But I thought the trade agreement had been well received.”

“It has been. This seemed to come out of nowhere, which makes the authorities think the anti-Zashian sentiment was being stirred up deliberately in the school. Anyway … the fire at the embassy was quickly put out. Officially, there were no fatalities.”

“Officially.”

Varazda nodded grimly. “In fact, there were three men murdered that night on the grounds of the embassy. The fire may have been arranged to cover up the evidence, although it didn’t work. All the victims were connected to the embassy. An aide to the ambassador, a Boukossian liaison, and a visiting court official from Suna.”

“Daughters of Night,” Damiskos swore. “Is the motive known? Was it simply spite against Zash, or … ”

“Spite, certainly—or something worse than spite—but there were also documents stolen from the court official. His secretary was able to confirm that he’d had them with him, and they were gone. The other two men seem to have been killed because they were with him. It was a ruthless crime, but not a particularly expert one.”