Page 9 of Sword Dance

He gave a shaky laugh. “I’m not sure that I did.” He fumbled in the folds of his broad sash. “You’re bleeding,” he said, holding out a patterned handkerchief.

“Oh.” Damiskos took it and hitched up the sleeve of his tunic to press it to the shallow cut which was dripping blood down his arm. “Thank you.”

Damiskos looked him over assessingly. The elaborate Zashian clothes were disordered but not actually torn or pulled off, which could mean that Gelon hadn’t attacked with rape in mind, or only that he hadn’t got very far with his attempt.

In the pale moonlight, with his hair down and his face unpainted, Aristokles’s slave was lovely in a way that seemed somehow basic and elemental, as if he were really neither male nor female, but a being of his own unique nature with a beauty that had no relation to either.

Which was of course nonsense. He was a young man who had been deliberately mutilated as a child, who had survived, and was obviously tougher than he looked.

“Pharastes?” said a querulous voice from behind Damiskos. “What’s going on?”

Damiskos turned to see Aristokles standing in the kitchen doorway, absurdly frozen with a raisin cake in each hand, one with a bite taken out of it.

“It was one of the students,” the eunuch said quickly. He pushed both slender hands into his hair, in what Damiskos suspected was an attempt to stop them shaking. It didn’t quite work. “He had a knife, which First Spear Damiskos took away from him. He has gone back into the house.”

Damiskos opened his mouth to say something, but realized he didn’t know what. He wanted to protest that he had not been nearly as helpful as this explanation made it sound, but that seemed slightly churlish when the slave had gone out of his way to present him to his master in the role of a saviour.

“He attacked you?” said Aristokles stupidly. “With a knife?”

“He was not able to do any serious damage,” said Damiskos, feeling he ought to say something. “Fortunately.”

Though who was he to say, really? There were ways to damage a man that didn’t involve blood or bruises.

Aristokles ignored him and did not wait for his slave to reply. “Are they going to come after me next?” he quavered, looking around him.

“I shouldn’t think so, sir,” said the eunuch. Damiskos had to give him credit for not laughing. He himself barely managed to avoid it.

“I don’t know,” his master muttered fretfully. “I don’t know. Are we really safe here? Milos didn’t tell me that—”

“Sir,” his servant cut him off with a surprising briskness. “We should return inside. And we should let First Spear Damiskos return to his bed also.”

“Oh,” said Aristokles. “Yes.” He shook himself slightly, and only then seemed to remember the raisin cakes he was holding. He took another large bite out of the one in his right hand, and advanced out of the doorway, holding out the other. “I got you one, too. They’re very good.”

“I’m not hungry,” the eunuch muttered, but he took the offered cake.

Aristokles looked at Damiskos and gave a little gasp. “You were injured in the affray!” He pointed to the handkerchief which Damiskos was still holding to his arm, not so much because he was still bleeding as because he had been rooted to the spot with puzzlement at the strange scene playing out between master and slave.

“Oh. Not really. Slightly grazed.” He unclamped the handkerchief and then didn’t know what to do with it. He realized he was also still holding Gelon’s knife.

Aristokles shuddered. “Ghastly business. I tell you, Pharastes, if I’d had any idea … ”

“Yes, sir.” The Zashian put a hand on his master’s elbow and steered him toward the house door. Aristokles took another bite of his raisin cake and moved as directed.

Damiskos followed them at a polite distance. That their relationship was something more than master and slave was obvious, but it only partly explained the strangeness of what Damiskos had just witnessed. Why had Aristokles not asked what made Gelon attack the eunuch? If he had made the obvious inference—that it was a rape attempt—why leap immediately to the conclusion that he might be in danger himself? And what had any of them been doing in the yard in the first place?

Ahead of him, Aristokles was talking earnestly and not very quietly. “It’s shocking, Pharastes, absolutely shocking. If you really were my slave—”

The eunuch drew in a sharp breath, but Aristokles had already stopped, seeing Damiskos behind him. Damiskos stopped too, looking at Aristokles with raised eyebrows.

“I … that is … ” Aristokles floundered.

“You will be surprised, First Spear,” his servant said smoothly, turning back to Damiskos. “On account of your familiarity with Zashian customs. In Zash, of course, a eunuch cannot be freed. But in Boukos it is not so. I was once Aristokles’s slave, but I am so no longer.”

“Ah,” said Damiskos. “I see. My congratulations.”

Aristokles gave an awkward laugh. “Yes, yes. You see, people often don’t understand, which is why we, er … ”

The eunuch laid his hand on Aristokles’s arm again, a gently shushing gesture.