Page 44 of Sword Dance

“I—I’m sorry.”

“I am teasing you, Damiskos. But I can stop. At least,” he amended, “I can try to stop.” He opened the door and held it for Damiskos to enter.

Damiskos smiled. “No. No, I’m not offended. I’m s—” He stopped himself from saying “sorry” again. “I’m on edge, that’s all.”

That wasn’t all, really; there was also the fact that he wanted to unpin Varazda’s hair and bury his face in it, kiss Varazda’s white throat, maybe push Varazda against a wall with his hands on Varazda’s tiny waist and slide his palms down to feel the shape of Varazda’s firm ass through his trousers …

“You’re not the only one.”

“What?”

“The only one on edge,” Varazda said patiently.

“No. Oh. No, I suppose I’m not. This must be intolerable for you. I mean, with your, your colleague missing and … ”

He wasn’t sure what to say, and his eye fell on the spare bed, which was still without a mattress. His heart sank a little; he really hadn’t wanted to sleep on the bare cords. Though if they were going to sleep in shifts, then presumably he could … they could both …

… the pillow and the sheets would smell of Varazda’s perfume …

“I didn’t forget about the extra mattress, in case you were wondering,” Varazda said. “Rhea said she would find one and have it brought up after she was finished her evening duties.”

“Ah.”

“Here, sit.”

He cleared space on his own bed, pulled the cover across, and sat himself, perched on the edge, his long legs stretched out. Damiskos sat beside him, leaning back on his hands. The day had left him tired.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Damiskos studied Varazda’s profile, the clean, smooth lines of it, the slightly aquiline nose, the elegant arch of eyebrow.

When you looked closely, you could see his lineage written in the bones of his face. Damiskos had seen countless faces like it—some marked with scars, some weatherbeaten and lined with age—on the battlefields and in the noblemen’s strongholds of the Deshan Coast. That wasn’t the part of Zash that he had loved, and its haughty tribesmen were not the people he had liked best, but he had respected them, as one had to respect worthy enemies. It was strange to be reminded of them when he looked at Varazda. And it was strange that he hadn’t been reminded of them sooner.

“Aristokles is probably dead,” Varazda said, “and I … If he is, I feel responsible. He was afraid he was in danger—afraid we both were—and I dismissed his fear instead of doing anything to insure it was unfounded.”

“You thought the only danger was to yourself.”

Varazda nodded. “That’s no excuse.”

“You … you’re fond of him, I guess.” In spite of everything, he still found himself returning to this. He still wanted to know.

“What? No, not at all. He’s been nothing but a nuisance. That doesn’t mean I wanted him killed.”

“No, no. Of course not. Was he just here to give you an excuse to come to Laothalia?”

Varazda nodded. “He was planning to visit Pheme and had a useful connection that could get him invited to Laothalia. He was strong-armed into the mission by a cousin on the Basileon. He was never comfortable with it, didn’t really know what the mission was about except that it’s dangerous … ” Varazda sighed. “You see why I feel guilty.”

“Yes.” He managed to sit there there for a minute or two with a sympathetic look on his face before he said, “So if Aristokles was never really your master … ”

“What was I? In Zash I was a dancer in the king’s household at Gudul—a provincial palace in the north, you probably don’t know it. When the permanent embassy in Boukos was established, seven years ago, His Radiancy sent slaves and furniture from each of his palaces to outfit it, and I was one of the articles sent from Gudul. It was me and a bed and some wall-hangings.”

As if he had been a thing, this beautiful person. And those goat-fuckers in the dining room could argue that slavery was a part of the natural order and essential to good government.

Varazda went on, “Then on the first anniversary of the establishment of the embassy, all of the household was freed, as part of a birthday celebration. There were only three eunuchs in the household at that time, and we thought that the manumission wouldn’t include us, because as you know, in Zash, we could not have been freed. But”—he shrugged—“in Boukos we could, and we were. So. I have been a Boukossian citizen six years now, and I am a free eunuch—one of three, as far as I know, in the world.”

“That’s wonderful,” said Damiskos earnestly. “I’m—I’m delighted for you. I should have said that a long time ago.”

Varazda waved a hand dismissively, but he also smiled. “I really did not give you an opportunity, did I?”

Chapter 11