Page 50 of Sword Dance

“You’re not wrong,” he said. He dipped another of his patterned handkerchiefs in the basin, wrung it out, and brought it over to offer it to Damiskos.

He sat on the bed beside Damiskos and watched Damiskos wipe himself off, with an interest that was surprisingly flattering. If Damiskos hadn’t been as wrung out as the handkerchief himself, he thought he would have got hard again, just from the touch of his own hand through the cloth and the weight of Varazda’s gaze on him.

Finished, he pulled down his tunic, and Varazda took the cloth back and hung it up, very daintily, on the rim of the basin, smoothing it out and straightening it several times. Damiskos snorted and rolled his eyes.

“I’ll take first watch,” said Varazda cheerfully. “I’m feeling quite full of energy.” He bounced slightly on his feet to prove it. “I’ll go down now and round up that mattress for you. No, don’t get up.”

He retrieved his shoes from under his bed, tossed on his pyjama shirt without buttoning it, and bounced out of the room, hair flying and hips swaying.

Chapter 12

Damiskos woke in the dark, jerked awake by a flurry of noise: the crash of the door hitting the bed on the opposite side of the room as it swung open; running feet outside. He pushed himself up, blinking blearily around the room. He’d been sleeping in an awkward position, face-down on top of the rumpled coverlet, with his tunic on and still belted.

Moonlight from the open door showed the other bed in the room still made—halfheartedly—and empty. He caught a whiff of smoke as if a lamp had recently been extinguished. He rolled out of bed and went to the door.

Varazda was coming up the stairs to the gallery, barefoot and pyjama-clad, with Damiskos’s short sword in his hand.

“Didn’t catch him,” he whispered when he reached the top of the stairs. “Not that I know what I’d have done if I had.” He handed the sword ruefully back to Damiskos. “It wasn’t Gelon, though. It was one of the others. Which is worrying, because it means it’s not just Gelon having it in for me personally. They all think I’m a threat. My cover, as we say in the business, appears to be blown.”

“That’s bad.”

Varazda nodded. “I scared him off, whoever he was, which means either they’ll leave us alone for the rest of the night—or they’ll send more than one next time.”

“I’ll take the watch now.”

“Good.” Varazda yawned elegantly. “I was going to wake you shortly anyway.”

They were back in the room by this time, but the door was still open, and Damiskos saw what he’d missed when he’d been jolted awake.

“Terza’s head, did I fall asleep in your bed?”

“Mm-hm. When I struggled back upstairs with the extra mattress, you were passed out there with the lamp still burning. I didn’t disturb you.”

“Gods. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, it’s fine. The other bed is just as comfortable. I left the light burning too—I’m not sure I’d have been able to keep awake in the dark. I just blew it out when I heard noises from outside, so they’d think I was asleep. I can light it for you again if you want.”

“No, I’m going to sit outside on the gallery. They know we know what they’re up to now—we don’t need to worry about the element of surprise.”

“Can I have my bed back, then?”

“Please.”

He collapsed gracefully onto it, pulling the covers around himself, and pressed his face into the pillow, drawing a deep breath.

“Mmmm. Smells like soldier.”

“I’m sorry,” said Damiskos stiffly.

One dark eye looked up at him from the pillow. “I don’t know if you’ve worked this out, First Spear,” came Varazda’s muffled voice, “but I fancy soldiers.”

* * *

Varazda took the last watch of the night, and he was out on the gallery, leaning on the railing, when Damiskos woke with the first light of morning. He yawned hugely as Damiskos came out to stand beside him.

There had been no more nocturnal visitors, and now the slave quarters were busy with early risers going about their tasks in the thin dawn light.

“Can you go back to bed?” Damiskos asked. “You look as if you need it.”