Page 33 of Sword Dance

“It seems that it was.”

“You might have told me sooner.”

“In Zashian, in front of all of them? Yes, I can see that working beautifully. You would have remained completely stone-faced, I’m sure.”

That stung. “Look, I’m doing my best.”

Varazda made no reply. The students had organized their procession and begun singing in ragged unison. People from the bonfire were looking over curiously. Eurydemos was waving his wine-cup and ranting about pure affection. You could feel the violence simmering under the surface of the scene—the crude violence of the mob, but also, perhaps, the cold violence of the fanatic.

“Most of them are just drunk,” said Damiskos. “But Helenos isn’t, and he thinks I was bluffing.”

“Well, you were.”

“Yes! I mean, of course. I mean—as it happens—I prefer women.”

“You’ll just have to pretend I am one. It is dark—that should help.”

“I’m not going to—”

“Stop saying you’re not going to take advantage of me. If you don’t want to compromise me further, you’ll have to lie down with me. If Helenos is trying to prove you haven’t really bought me, he’ll egg them on to watch, and if they don’t see what they want—”

“This’ll turn ugly,” Damiskos finished for him. “What should we do?”

“We can go in one of those little tumbled-down houses up ahead—they don’t look like they’d offer the slightest privacy. And since I suppose ‘You won’t put me off my stride’ was the biggest bluff of the lot, we’d better attempt something that doesn’t require you to do too much acting. Leaves of the Lily, maybe—although that won’t look all that spectacular for our audience. I’m not very good at Stalk of the Lily, but I suppose it doesn’t matter—you can at least pretend to enjoy it. You wouldn’t like Heart of the Pomegranate, and Planting the Rose is out of the question.”

“What are you talking about?” Damiskos was torn between laughter—of the strictly hysterical sort—and plain horror. “I—I mean, I don’t know what any of those things are, and—”

“And I don’t know any other names for them. I’ve never had to discuss any of this in Pseuchaian, because I’ve never had to do any of it in Pseuchaia—”

“And we’re not going to do any of it now, if it means anything like what I think.”

Damiskos drew a deep breath. He had fucked up at every turn, rousing Helenos’s suspicion and bringing this whole situation down on Varazda’s head. He owed it to Varazda to do what he could to fix it.

They had reached the nearer of the two beach huts, and Damiskos turned Varazda toward him, lifting their joined hands into a clasp between them. Varazda stepped in, very close, every muscle rigid with tension, plainly about ready to throw up with some combination of anger and fear and disgust.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” said Damiskos quickly, to forestall any further suggestions about flowers or fruit. “We’re going to lie down together in there and talk, and—I don’t know—maybe pretend to kiss and cuddle a bit. It’s going to be very boring to watch, and they’ll go back to the bonfire before long. But it should be convincing. It’s what I would really do, if this weren’t all a setup.”

It took Varazda a moment to unclench his jaw sufficiently to reply. “Don’t be ridiculous. You, a soldier? No one would believe that.”

Damiskos sighed. “It’s not what I’d do with a camp follower, or a fellow soldier, but it is what I’d do with someone like you. Not that I—”

“Yes, I heard you the first time. You prefer women.”

“So—is it all right?”

The students were getting close, chanting snatches of obscene poetry in the style of wedding blessings and holding their sticks aloft. Eurydemos had dropped behind, but Helenos was there with the main group, arm draped around Phaia’s shoulders. If they persisted in their parody of a marriage procession, they would end up surrounding the beach house for the singing of the consummation hymn.

Varazda moved back toward the open front wall of the hut, pulling Damiskos with him in what he managed to make a graceful, shyly flirtatious gesture. Considering how strung up he actually was, Damiskos thought that was impressive.

The interior of the hut contained a pair of masonry couches, padded with rush mats, positioned on opposite sides of the small space. Varazda led Damiskos around to the couch on the left, where he sat, and Damiskos deposited the shoes and swords he had been carrying on the floor. Varazda swung his feet up onto the couch. Damiskos remained standing. He could hear the students outside laughing and talking. It was dark in here, but not dark enough; as Varazda had predicted, there was nothing private about it.

“When you say ‘someone like you,’” said Varazda, “you mean a boy, don’t you?”

They were both still speaking in undertones. “I don’t court boys—I know Zashians think all Pseuchaians chase boys, but there are plenty of us—”

“I heard you the first time. And I’m not a boy. I’m thirty.”

Damiskos stared. “Thirty?”