Page 26 of Sword Dance

The Reds and Whites court was squeezed in between the summer dining room and the cliff’s edge, with a strip of scrubland preventing the balls from rolling off and landing on the beach below. In the final game of the set, Phaia, who was a bad player but seemed to take the game very seriously, sent her red ball flying into the undergrowth. Damiskos, who was standing nearest—and had almost been hit by the ball—volunteered to wade in after it. He was the only person present not wearing a gown or a long mantle, so no one objected.

He battled through the bushes, wondering whether he could feign some sort of shrub-related injury that would allow him to retreat to the house and escape the rest of the boring game, when something out in the bay caught his eye. It was a small ship, arriving from the city of Pheme, to judge by the direction it was pointed. The sailors had just dropped anchor and were lowering a boat.

He found the ball, nestled right on the edge of the bluff, and as he was manoeuvring awkwardly to retrieve it without losing an eye to one of the bushes, he noticed something else below. Someone was crawling about in the tall grass and shrubs below the cliff, dragging something.

Damiskos straightened up and nudged Phaia’s ball with the toe of his boot. It tipped over the edge and bounced and rolled down to plop into the undergrowth below. The crawling person started, turned around, and looked up, and Damiskos recognized Gelon.

“I’m afraid the red’s gone out of play,” he reported when he had made his way back to the court. “Over the cliff edge.”

“Automatic forfeit!” Kleitos cried, as Damiskos had known he would.

“Why don’t we call it a match, in that case?” said Damiskos, who had been winning the set. “There’s a ship coming in—maybe we should go down to meet it.”

“Oh, that will be our fellow students from Pheme,” said Phaia. “Come, Nione—let us go welcome them.”

She held out a hand, smiling, head tilted winsomely to one side. Nione gave her a look that Damiskos had seen on the faces of men on the battlefield who had received their mortal wound. There was an awkward pause before Phaia dropped her hand and laughed carelessly. Everyone seemed to have noticed; no one said anything.

“I must go speak to Aradne about accommodating our extra guests,” said Nione finally. “I was not expecting them so soon. You will excuse me.”

She left, and after a moment Tyra followed her back toward the house. The others headed for the stairs down to the beach. Damiskos kept up as best he could.

Helenos and Phaia were walking ahead, deep in conversation. Helenos was obviously annoyed; Phaia seemed to be trying to justify herself.

By the time they reached the beach, the boat was almost ashore, its passengers waving and hailing the approaching party. Damiskos let the others get ahead of him here, and turned back to scan the fringe of grass and shrubs for Gelon.

He spotted him, crouching among the bushes with leaves in his hair. When Gelon realized he’d been seen, he crawled out and got to his feet, attempting a casual air.

“Damiskos from the Quartermaster’s Office!”

“What are you doing out here?” He looked past Gelon at the bushes. There was certainly something else in there—a dark, inert object—but he could tell nothing more about it from here. “Not looking for another opportunity to ambush Aristokles’s slave, I hope.”

He wondered if Gelon, who had brought a knife with him to a house party and been willing to use it, had been one of the assassins in Boukos. He hadn’t been very skilled with the knife, so perhaps not.

“Don’t be silly,” said Gelon cheerfully. “Helenos is very disappointed in you, Damiskos.”

Damiskos glanced over his shoulder at the group by the shore. They were paying no attention to him and Gelon.

“Why should I care what Helenos thinks?”

“Why should you care?” Gelon looked genuinely surprised. “Because he’s the rising star. He’s the one everyone is going to be listening to at the Marble Porches in a few years—maybe less. Eurydemos is past it. That’s a fact. He’s been seduced by the gods-cursed Sasians, that’s what it is. Mentally seduced, I mean, though who knows about the other—anything’s possible. He is a soft half-man. Maybe he’s let some trousered dog bend him over.” Gelon shuddered. “It all goes together, that’s what Helenos says: degeneracy of the mind and body. Barbarian ideas infect like a disease, infect the individual, infect the state.”

Damiskos laughed harshly. “Helenos doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s never been to Zash, has he? Those people are so hemmed in by taboos and euphemisms and elaborate clothes—it’s a wonder anyone in the kingdom ever has sex at all.”

Gelon was shaking his head. “Helenos has seen the Sasian plague infect Boukos and Master Eurydemos. He says we have to take strong measures to prevent the same thing happening in Pheme. And he saw you last night with the Sasian gelding—he saw the two of you coming out of your room. We thought you agreed with us that a barbarian dog has no business in a Maiden’s house. How did he get at you? You’re not a degenerate yourself—First Spear of the Second Koryphos, I wouldn’t dare suggest it!”

“And you’ve obviously never been in the army. Soldiers on campaign sleep with whomever they like, and don’t go about calling each other degenerates—nobody’s got time for that kind of thing when you’re facing death on the battlefield. What are you doing down here?”

Gelon adopted a prim expression. “I probably shouldn’t tell you. I don’t know if we can trust you.”

“If it involves knifing innocent civilians in the night, you can trust me to stop you.”

Gelon gave him a sharp look, as if Damiskos had said something unexpected.

“Well, you should stay away from the Sasian, is all I’m saying. Don’t listen to his lies.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Damiskos said sternly.

The new arrivals from the ship were ashore now, and the whole party was headed their way.