Page 81 of Sword Dance

“Here’s what it is,” said Damiskos, when they were all sitting around the fire. “We’ve set the signal for the postal ship from Boukos, so it should stop here some time tomorrow morning. They may well see that from the villa—it works to our advantage if they do, because I propose we go up and knock at the door and tell them that a band of crack Zashian mercenaries has arrived from Boukos on that ship, has the villa surrounded, and demands their immediate surrender.”

“And,” said Aradne into the stunned silence that followed, “they’ll believe this because … ”

“Because when they look out from the signal tower, they’ll catch glimpses through the trees of riders in Zashian clothes, they’ll see the glint of sun on weapons, they’ll hear strange, unintelligible shouts and signals, see foliage swaying as the Zashian forces marshal just out of sight.”

“Oh!” Aradne cried, all but bouncing up from the sand with a girlish delight that was equal parts endearing and alarming. “It’s a ruse! It’s like how they captured that place, Sou … Sou-something, in Sasia.”

“Sumuz,” Varazda supplied. “How do you know about that?”

“Someone told me the story. Oh, we must do it, Nione. It will be such fun.”

“Fun?” Nione repeated, giving Aradne an incredulous look.

“Fun,” Aradne repeated. “What did you bring back with you from the house?” she asked, turning back to Damiskos and Varazda.

“Mostly Varazda’s clothes,” said Damiskos with a grin. “Fortunately he doesn’t travel light. We’ve got some of the grooms on our side as well—we talked to them about the plan.”

They had gone back into the slave quarters, ransacked Varazda’s room for anything useable, and done some plotting with the four remaining slaves, who had been nearly beside themselves with eagerness to help.

“So do we have your permission, Nione?” Damiskos asked.

“Wait,” said Eurydemos, holding up a hand. “What are you proposing to do?”

“We’re going to pretend to be Zashian soldiers,” said Aradne, as if addressing a child she didn’t like very much.

“But surely,” said Eurydemos, “it is nothing more than a cowardly trick. Can such a thing be compatible with honour?”

“Is that really of primary importance, Eurydemos?” Nione cut in before either Aradne or Damiskos could answer.

“No, no,” the philosopher conceded easily, but with a kind of superior tone that Damiskos found grating. “I merely raise it as an interesting point.”

“I’m sure it is,” said Nione, “on some level. But as this isn’t a philosophical debate, I think we can set that aside.”

“Of course, of course,” said Eurydemos.

“Actually,” said Damiskos, “let’s not. Because I have an answer for that question. Honour is a matter of deeds in the world—it isn’t something you can make up in your own head. You can’t take away my honour by thinking I don’t deserve it—that’s not how it works.

“Now. I led a manoeuvre very like the capture of Sumuz, in the Zashian year 993, when I was First Spear. I had my company of a hundred, and I was waiting for my subordinates to arrive with their men, but there’d been a rockslide and they couldn’t get through the mountain pass to reach us. The stronghold we were intending to besiege was fully garrisoned, and it was only a matter of time before they realized our reinforcements weren’t coming and made a sally to attack us.

“I massed most of my men in front of the stronghold, sent a couple of parties through the woods surrounding the other sides, making a lot of noise and hanging helmets on trees and so on—exactly the same strategy as Sumuz. The defenders fell for it, we captured the stronghold with minimal bloodshed, and—” He held up his right wrist, indicating the bronze bracelet of the Second Koryphos. “My honour is intact. It’s no more a cowardly trick than feinting in a sword-fight, moving left when you’re going to cut right.”

“Ah-yah,” said Varazda under his breath. It was what Zashians sometimes shouted instead of clapping or whistling. Damiskos flashed him a smile.

Eurydemos nodded serenely, his superior look still in place. Damiskos didn’t care; he hadn’t really expected to convince the man. He just thought Nione and Aradne and the other women deserved to know that what they were proposing to do was something even the Phemian army wouldn’t have thought dishonourable.

“Very well,” said Nione. “What do we need to do first?”

* * *

“I seem to spend all my time these days listening to you strategize,” said Varazda drowsily.

He lay in the sand with his head in Damiskos’s lap. They were alone at the nearly extinct campfire now. It was extremely late.

“Getting tired of it, are you?”

“No,” said Varazda. “I love it.”

He settled himself more comfortably against Damiskos’s thigh and mumbled something about getting up. After a minute or two Damiskos could tell that he was asleep.