Page 38 of Sword Dance

“Anyway, you can ask in the stables—I already paid the grooms to say Aristokles took a horse and someone from the village brought it back. And no, Aristokles didn’t write that letter.”

“I was going to ask. You’re sure?”

“Quite sure. It was nothing like his writing, wasn’t sealed with his ring—nothing about it looked right.”

“Divine Terza.”

“I am going to spend the morning on a tour of the villa, looking for places where one could hide a body.”

Damiskos digested that for a moment. “If that’s what you’re doing,” he said firmly, “I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am. I’m besottedly in love with you, remember? No one will think it odd if we’re inseparable all day. And no one will have the opportunity to murder you, either.”

Varazda gave him a look that could only be described as a silent snarl.

* * *

Damiskos did not exactly follow Varazda around all day, but only because it didn’t take all day to search the villa. He accompanied Varazda to the wine cellars, where he browsed among the bottles while Varazda looked in corners and behind barrels. When one of the household slaves came down to fetch some wine, Damiskos engaged him in conversation so that he would not notice Varazda, and accompanied him upstairs and then loitered around the cellar door, pretending to admire some mosaics, until Varazda returned.

“Oh, good,” said Varazda sarcastically. “You’re still here.”

“You didn’t find anything.”

“Of course not.”

In the stables, much the same process was repeated, with Damiskos chatting with the grooms while Varazda sneaked about. This time it was Varazda who was waiting outside the stable-yard gate, leaning against the wall and looking elaborately bored, when Damiskos finished admiring the horses and finally emerged.

“Sorry about that. Got caught up.”

“Mm. Fun for you.”

Damiskos sighed.

In the kitchen wing, Damiskos pretended to want a snack while Varazda pretended to be looking in the storerooms for the ingredients to make a special Zashian dish.

“I wouldn’t have thought he knew how to boil water,” the head cook remarked, looking after Varazda. “Begging your pardon, sir.”

Damiskos shrugged and laughed.

He probably didn’t. He came back empty-handed, claiming that they didn’t have whatever it was he needed; he also claimed, wisely, not to know what it was called in Pseuchaian.

“Still nothing?” said Damiskos when they had left the kitchen.

“Still nothing.”

“Well, I suppose in this context, ‘nothing’ is good.”

Varazda shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m going down to the fish-sauce factory to look around there, and then I’m going to walk to that village that I pretended Aristokles went to. Please don’t come with me, First Spear. I will be fine, and I think … I’m sorry, but I think you have already walked enough today.”

That caught Damiskos by surprise, not only the words but the tone in which they were said. Clearly Varazda realized he wouldn’t like to hear that—even seemed to understand, or at least to care.

“I—” Instinctively he wanted to say he was fine, but he wasn’t. His knee had been hurting all morning after walking so much yesterday without his cane, and the prospect of sitting down and resting it for a few hours was pitifully appealing.

“Wait for me in the garden or the library,” Varazda suggested, “and I’ll come find you when I’ve done. If I’m not back by sunset, you have my leave to raise the alarm.”

“I don’t like it, Varazda.”