THERE WAS NO one in the courtyard of the slave quarters when Damiskos entered for the second time that morning. He had gathered from the way Varazda spoke last night that he wasn't lodged in a dormitory but had his own room, or at least a shared room, which probably meant he was in one of the chambers on the upper level of the slave quarters, their doors opening onto a gallery along the front of the building.
Damiskos laboured up the wooden stairs at the end of the gallery, grateful there was no one in the yard to see how much effort it cost him. He was almost at the top when he glanced up at a noise to see a door halfway along the gallery open and Varazda emerge, in green silk patterned with white roses, with a comb in his hand, his hair still unbraided.
Varazda stood still, watching Damiskos finish climbing the stairs, a dubious expression on his face.
“Aristokles left in the night,” said Damiskos quickly, in Zashian, once he had reached the gallery. “Did you know about it?”
He’d intended to spring this on Varazda to catch him off guard, if possible. He also wanted to speak first to shut down whatever dry remark Varazda had been planning to make. “You want something, First Spear? Again? You must want it pretty badly, too, to brave those stairs.”
It worked on both counts. There was, for a moment, a look of complete shock on Varazda’s face. It melted away to be replaced by his usual haughty composure, and there was a tense pause.
“Who told you that?” Varazda asked finally.
“Some of the household slaves—Niko and Rhea. His bed had not been slept in, and his belongings are gone.”
“Couldn’t he have moved to a different room?”
“Apparently not without their knowing about it.”
“I see.”
“Did you attend him last night when he went to bed?”
Varazda looked for a moment as if he was going to remind Damiskos again that this was none of his business. Instead he said, with an air of being very forbearing, “No. My excuse for leaving the dining room to talk to you was that I wanted to go to my own bed. And after our conversation, I did.”
Damiskos considered that and decided that he believed it.
“But the household slaves thought you would be attending Aristokles, so they left him alone. So actually, nobody knows where he went when he left the dining room.”
He almost added, “And it’s too late for you to pretend you do know.” He knew Varazda was thinking it.
Varazda pulled his hair forward over his shoulder and twisted it around his hand to lift it off his neck, as if he was too warm. “First Spear … ” He sighed. In Zashian, he said, “Who do you work for?”
Damiskos blinked. What did that have to do with anything? “The office in charge of provisioning the Phemian army. In Pseuchaian my commanding officer is called the ‘Quartermaster’—I don’t know the Zashian word.”
“No, no.” Varazda waved his free hand irritably. “Really. Who do you really work for.”
“I don’t … I don’t think I understand. Do you think I am lying to you?”
Varazda’s dark eyes were inscrutable. “No. I see. You are actually here on behalf of the Master Provisioner of the Phemian legions to buy fish sauce.”
“Is there something about that that’s hard to believe? Eurydemos’s students seemed to think it was funny—like something out of a modern novel, they said.”
Varazda’s shapely eyebrows went up. “The comedy of the absurd? They have a point. That’s not what I was getting at, though. I’m trying to account for your interest in Aristokles and me.”
“I’m not interested in Aristokles. Nor—nor in you.” That didn’t come out sounding nearly as convincing as he wanted, or as polite. “I mean … ”
Varazda sighed. “I, ah … Aristokles is here on behalf of the Boukossian government.”
Damiskos blinked at him for a moment. “He what? Doing what? Courting Nione?”
“No,” said Varazda dryly. “That part is what you might call extra-curricular.”
“Oh. So he’s—he’s what? A spy?”
“Something like that.” He seemed to be thinking for a moment, then he nodded decisively. “Look, I’ll tell you the whole story, if you want. I probably owe you an explanation after that … after last night.” He looked through the open door into his room for a moment. “You’d better come in.”
The room beyond the door was small and very full of Varazda’s belongings. There were two beds, but only one had a mattress; evidently Varazda had the room to himself.
For someone who had, presumably, been a domestic slave, he was surprisingly untidy. There was a trunk against the opposite wall, its lid open, clothes flopping out of it. More clothes were draped over the disused bed, along with a box containing a jumble of jewelry and a makeup kit: little brushes, vials, and pots of colour. There was a faint scent of incense in the air.
Varazda tossed the coverlet halfheartedly over his own bed and pushed aside some of the clothes on the other bed to make room for Damiskos to sit. Damiskos sat.
“If Aristokles didn’t actually come here to court Nione—those earrings he gave her, were they … ”
Varazda made a face. He sat cross-legged on the end of his own bed. “They were mine. My favourite pair. I made him promise to get me a replacement when we’re back in Boukos.”
“Ah.” Made him promise? None of your business, First Spear, Damiskos reminded himself.
“So,” said Varazda, “I said I’d tell you the whole story. I hope it goes without saying that this is in utter, utter confidence?”
“Of course.”
“Good. You know Eurydemos opened a school in Boukos about a year ago?”
“I think someone mentioned that.”
“It’s very popular—he was flooded with students as soon as he opened. As far as anyone knew, what they were teaching there was nothing out of the ordinary. Whatever it is they normally teach in these places.” He waved a hand airily. “Don’t ask me—I’m a dancer, not a philosopher. Anyway, a week ago there was a riot.”
“A riot? In Boukos?” He hadn’t known such things happened there.
“Well, probably not something you’d consider a riot in Pheme. A disturbance. Nobody was trampled to death in the streets. It started in the Vintners’ District, near Eurydemos’s school, and we think—the captain of the public watch thinks—some of Eurydemos’s students started it. At the very least, they were heavily involved. They broke into the home of a Zashian merchant, looted a couple of shops that stock Zashian goods, and finally marched across town and tried to set fire to our embassy.”
“No! But that’s appalling!” Damiskos was shocked. “An anti-Zashian riot? But I thought the trade agreement had been well received.”
“It has been. This seemed to come out of nowhere, which makes the authorities think the anti-Zashian sentiment was being stirred up deliberately in the school. Anyway … the fire at the embassy was quickly put out. Officially, there were no fatalities.”
“Officially.”
Varazda nodded grimly. “In fact, there were three men murdered that night on the grounds of the embassy. The fire may have been arranged to cover up the evidence, although it didn’t work. All the victims were connected to the embassy. An aide to the ambassador, a Boukossian liaison, and a visiting court official from Suna.”
“Daughters of Night,” Damiskos swore. “Is the motive known? Was it simply spite against Zash, or … ”
“Spite, certainly—or something worse than spite—but there were also documents stolen from the court official. His secretary was able to confirm that he’d had them with him, and they were gone. The other two men seem to have been killed because they were with him. It was a ruthless crime, but not a particularly expert one.”
“And the students are suspected.”
“They are. The public watch was able to find a witness who saw several armed men leaving the embassy and got a clear look at one. Her description didn’t match any of the students currently at Eurydemos’s school, but there were a lot of men from his old school in Pheme visiting that week, and they’d left by the time the investigation got underway.”
“So Aristokles is here to investigate Eurydemos and his students. Who may well be murderers.” It was a lot to take in. Aristokles didn’t seem like Damiskos’s idea of a secret agent. But then, presumably that was the point. “I thought he was up to something, but I’d never have guessed it was anything like that. Do they know who—I mean—presumably the philosophers are working for someone?”
They had to be; it was hard enough to imagine them doing more than sitting around talking about the theoretical desirability of assassinating someone in their tedious Ideal Republic. Someone else must have done the practical planning.
“They may be,” said Varazda. “We’re not sure.”
“And what they stole, the documents—obviously I don’t expect you to tell me what they were, but I assume they were sensitive?”
“Very.”
“And the embassy needs them back?”
“Urgently.”
“Terza’s head. I know what they’re doing. They want war with Zash.”
He told Varazda about his conversation with Helenos on the fishing pier and Helenos’s explanation of “Phemian purity.”
“They think war is good for the Republic,” Damiskos said, “and I think they may have a plan to bring it about.”
“You don’t agree?”
“About war? What, just because I happen to be good at it? No. Does a physician wish for a plague so he can exercise his skill?”
Varazda looked momentarily taken aback. “I’m sorry. You’re quite right.”
“Never mind. The point is that Helenos seems to believe this, and I suppose his fellow students may too.”
“They may. Eurydemos himself seems to be rather more pro-Zashian than anything. He certainly … ” Varazda winced. “He certainly fancies me.”
“Ah. Yes. But Gelon attacked you.”
“Yes. That was related. He saw me … lurking, I suppose … outside Eurydemos’s room, and he followed me out to the yard, thinking he was defending his master from my unnatural Sasian what-have-you.”
“Right.” And why had Varazda been outside Eurydemos’s room? None of your business, First Spear. “Aristokles said something like that, actually, when I asked him about it.”
“Did he.” Varazda looked tired.
“They didn’t exactly send their best, did they? The Boukossian government.”
Varazda gave him a sour look for a moment, and Damiskos wished he hadn’t said that. It wasn’t fair to ask a freedman to speak ill of his old master, whatever else they might be to one another.
“You may be right,” was all Varazda said.
“So I suppose … Do you think Aristokles has gone now to make his report to someone, or meet some contact, or … ” He knew very little about the practical workings of espionage.
“I don’t know where he’s gone,” Varazda admitted, “or why, or when—whether—he’ll be back. I don’t know why he left me behind.”
Damiskos was startled by his candour, although he had spoken calmly enough. “You think something sinister has happened to him.”
“I do. We are potentially dealing with dangerous fanatics. If they happened to learn what he was here for … ”
“Right.” And that wasn’t the least likely thing in the world. Aristokles had come perilously close to telling Damiskos himself.
“In any case,” said Varazda, “I’m going to have to lie and say I do know where Aristokles has gone. That’s why I thought I had better come clean to you now. Since you would of course know that I was lying.” He looked up at Damiskos through his lashes.
“I thought perhaps you wanted my help,” said Damiskos frankly.
Varazda’s brows rose archly.
“You’re in a vulnerable position,” Damiskos persisted, then hoped that didn’t sound bullying.
“It’s kind of you to be concerned, First Spear. I’ll be fine.”
“I know you can handle yourself. I just … With your patron away … And as you said, these men may be dangerous. If there’s anything I can do … ”
“Thank you. I will keep it in mind.”
“Good. Well, I won’t keep you any longer. I do … I am … Thank you for taking me into your confidence. If there’s anything I can do.” He’d already said that. Idiot.
Varazda uncrossed his legs and stood, the movement liquidly graceful.
“One thing more,” he said as he reached for the door handle. “About last night.”
Damiskos got awkwardly to his feet. “Oh, you mean the, um … No, no explanation necessary. I quite understand. You and Aristokles being here on confidential business, obviously you don’t want Eurydemos or his students to think you’re up to anything underhanded, conspiring with any of the other guests or whatnot. No, I—I understood that.”
“Yes. But what I was going to say was: We needn’t keep up the pretence.”
“Oh. No, I didn’t think … I mean, if you’re sure.”
Varazda reverted to his mannered court Zashian: “I mean the pretence of a continued liaison between ourselves. It will do to let it be thought that I am simply promiscuous.” After a moment he added, very precisely, “That is also a pretence.”
“Yes,” said Damiskos, and couldn’t suppress a smile. “I’d figured that.”
He was surprised to see Varazda’s cheeks colour slightly. He realized how his remark might be taken.
“I didn’t mean just because of the, um … ” He made an unfortunate gesture.
“Out,” said Varazda, holding open the door.
The more Damiskos thought about what he had just learned, the more disgusted he was with Aristokles. Maybe the man knew what he was doing with his mission—appearances to the contrary—but why had he thought it necessary to bring his very Zashian freedman into a nest of suspected Zashian-haters? Aristokles and Varazda obviously had a close and friendly relationship, even if they weren’t lovers. Look at all the details Varazda knew about his patron’s mission; it was obvious they talked almost as equals and that Aristokles had few secrets from Varazda. All the more reason to take better care of him, Damiskos thought. Advise him to tone down the jewellery and the makeup, at least—those were bound to attract the anger of the philosopher’s students with their mania for manliness.
Though it would have been a shame. All that finery did suit him.
When Damiskos came into the house, Niko hurried up to tell him that the mistress was back and discussing with Aradne at that very moment the question of what had happened to Aristokles Phoskos.
It came as rather a strange shock to recall that when he had last been looking for Nione it was with the intention of telling her a vague story about Aristokles acting suspiciously and Gelon menacing Varazda for unknown reasons. He knew so much more about it now, and he couldn’t talk to her because he was committed to keeping Varazda’s secret, and he didn’t yet know what story Varazda was going to give to account for Aristokles’s disappearance.
If it was true that Eurydemos’s students had murdered men in Boukos and stolen valuable documents, did Nione know about it? Damiskos did not want to believe that possible. But she had invited these people into her house, was apparently seriously considering letting them move into her house permanently. Did she had any idea what they were really up to?
No. No, surely not. She was tolerant to a fault, but she must draw the line somewhere, and Damiskos felt sure she would not be embracing the students if she knew them to be criminals and fanatics.
Someone had proposed a game of Reds and Whites for that afternoon, and everyone else seemed enthusiastic. Damiskos thought joining the game would be the best way of keeping an eye on the other guests.
It was deathly dull. No one was much of a player except Kleitos, who had won a cup in the Pan-Pseuchaian games as a boy and took every opportunity to mention it. He and his wife obviously played together at home, and she would have been quite good too if she hadn’t been so busy trying to make sure to let him win.
Nione seemed distracted and not herself. Damiskos might have been imagining it, but he thought he could see evidence that she had been crying. Several times in the course of the set she was called away by members of her staff and returned looking even more harried and unhappy.
Helenos was exactly the sort of Reds and Whites player that Damiskos would have expected him to be: carelessly unskilled but not bothered by it, just a little aloof from the whole thing. Eurydemos was the same, only he also seemed to feel it was beneath him to remember the rules, and kept having to pause to hitch up his mantle.
Gelon was missing from the party, the only one absent besides Aristokles.
The Reds and Whites court was squeezed in between the summer dining room and the cliff’s edge, with a strip of scrubland preventing the balls from rolling off and landing on the beach below. In the final game of the set, Phaia, who was a bad player but seemed to take the game very seriously, sent her red ball flying into the undergrowth. Damiskos, who was standing nearest—and had almost been hit by the ball—volunteered to wade in after it. He was the only person present not wearing a gown or a long mantle, so no one objected.
He battled through the bushes, wondering whether he could feign some sort of shrub-related injury that would allow him to retreat to the house and escape the rest of the boring game, when something out in the bay caught his eye. It was a small ship, arriving from the city of Pheme, to judge by the direction it was pointed. The sailors had just dropped anchor and were lowering a boat.
He found the ball, nestled right on the edge of the bluff, and as he was manoeuvring awkwardly to retrieve it without losing an eye to one of the bushes, he noticed something else below. Someone was crawling about in the tall grass and shrubs below the cliff, dragging something.
Damiskos straightened up and nudged Phaia’s ball with the toe of his boot. It tipped over the edge and bounced and rolled down to plop into the undergrowth below. The crawling person started, turned around, and looked up, and Damiskos recognized Gelon.
“I’m afraid the red’s gone out of play,” he reported when he had made his way back to the court. “Over the cliff edge.”
“Automatic forfeit!” Kleitos cried, as Damiskos had known he would.
“Why don’t we call it a match, in that case?” said Damiskos, who had been winning the set. “There’s a ship coming in—maybe we should go down to meet it.”
“Oh, that will be our fellow students from Pheme,” said Phaia. “Come, Nione—let us go welcome them.”
She held out a hand, smiling, head tilted winsomely to one side. Nione gave her a look that Damiskos had seen on the faces of men on the battlefield who had received their mortal wound. There was an awkward pause before Phaia dropped her hand and laughed carelessly. Everyone seemed to have noticed; no one said anything.
“I must go speak to Aradne about accommodating our extra guests,” said Nione finally. “I was not expecting them so soon. You will excuse me.”
She left, and after a moment Tyra followed her back toward the house. The others headed for the stairs down to the beach. Damiskos kept up as best he could.
Helenos and Phaia were walking ahead, deep in conversation. Helenos was obviously annoyed; Phaia seemed to be trying to justify herself.
By the time they reached the beach, the boat was almost ashore, its passengers waving and hailing the approaching party. Damiskos let the others get ahead of him here, and turned back to scan the fringe of grass and shrubs for Gelon.
He spotted him, crouching among the bushes with leaves in his hair. When Gelon realized he’d been seen, he crawled out and got to his feet, attempting a casual air.
“Damiskos from the Quartermaster’s Office!”
“What are you doing out here?” He looked past Gelon at the bushes. There was certainly something else in there—a dark, inert object—but he could tell nothing more about it from here. “Not looking for another opportunity to ambush Aristokles’s slave, I hope.”
He wondered if Gelon, who had brought a knife with him to a house party and been willing to use it, had been one of the assassins in Boukos. He hadn’t been very skilled with the knife, so perhaps not.
“Don’t be silly,” said Gelon cheerfully. “Helenos is very disappointed in you, Damiskos.”
Damiskos glanced over his shoulder at the group by the shore. They were paying no attention to him and Gelon.
“Why should I care what Helenos thinks?”
“Why should you care?” Gelon looked genuinely surprised. “Because he’s the rising star. He’s the one everyone is going to be listening to at the Marble Porches in a few years—maybe less. Eurydemos is past it. That’s a fact. He’s been seduced by the gods-cursed Sasians, that’s what it is. Mentally seduced, I mean, though who knows about the other—anything’s possible. He is a soft half-man. Maybe he’s let some trousered dog bend him over.” Gelon shuddered. “It all goes together, that’s what Helenos says: degeneracy of the mind and body. Barbarian ideas infect like a disease, infect the individual, infect the state.”
Damiskos laughed harshly. “Helenos doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s never been to Zash, has he? Those people are so hemmed in by taboos and euphemisms and elaborate clothes—it’s a wonder anyone in the kingdom ever has sex at all.”
Gelon was shaking his head. “Helenos has seen the Sasian plague infect Boukos and Master Eurydemos. He says we have to take strong measures to prevent the same thing happening in Pheme. And he saw you last night with the Sasian gelding—he saw the two of you coming out of your room. We thought you agreed with us that a barbarian dog has no business in a Maiden’s house. How did he get at you? You’re not a degenerate yourself—First Spear of the Second Koryphos, I wouldn’t dare suggest it!”
“And you’ve obviously never been in the army. Soldiers on campaign sleep with whomever they like, and don’t go about calling each other degenerates—nobody’s got time for that kind of thing when you’re facing death on the battlefield. What are you doing down here?”
Gelon adopted a prim expression. “I probably shouldn’t tell you. I don’t know if we can trust you.”
“If it involves knifing innocent civilians in the night, you can trust me to stop you.”
Gelon gave him a sharp look, as if Damiskos had said something unexpected.
“Well, you should stay away from the Sasian, is all I’m saying. Don’t listen to his lies.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Damiskos said sternly.
The new arrivals from the ship were ashore now, and the whole party was headed their way.
“Hestos! Phaidon!” Gelon called, waving. “Giontes? Good to see you!”
Damiskos hoped briefly that Gelon would take off across the beach to greet them, but he had enough sense to stand his ground and wait for them to come to collect him and Damiskos.
“So this is to be our new home, is it?” one of the students was saying to Eurydemos. “It’s all settled?”
“It will be soon,” Helenos interposed smoothly.
Gelon introduced Damiskos to the newcomers as a war hero, and they were all exaggeratedly deferential.
“First Spear of the Second Koryphos,” Gelon reported.
“We’re honoured!”
“Served in Sasia,” Gelon added.
“Like your cousin, Helenos.”
“Like my cousin. Only Damiskos came home alive.”
“Injured on the battlefield, though,” said one of the other students in a sententious tone, “in defence of the Republic. I hope they give you a generous pension for that.”
“I wasn’t,” said Damiskos. “Injured in battle.”
They didn’t know what to make of this, and so pretended he hadn’t said it.
There were five of them, all about Gelon’s age, all with the same prototypical Phemian looks as Damiskos himself—dark hair, olive skin—as if they had walked off of a painted cup. There was a fat one, a tall one, two utterly generic ones, and a shaven-headed one with a badly-healed broken nose. Gelon mentioned their names, but they did not stick in Damiskos’s mind.
Of course they wouldn’t leave him alone to poke around in the underbrush, but wanted to hear details of his war record and make pronouncements about the glory of Pheme. In this way Damiskos found himself herded back up the stairs to the garden in the midst of the party. Gelon followed, looking pleased with himself. He’d shown more cunning than Damiskos had given him credit for.
So Helenos was the one to watch. Damiskos could see it now that there were more students present: the way Eurydemos, their supposed master, faded into the background, not exactly ignored but subtly condescended to, while Helenos cooly dominated the conversation.
Was Eurydemos uninvolved in the events in Boukos? That fit with what Varazda had already ascertained about his sympathies. Perhaps Helenos and his cronies had masterminded the riot and the theft from the embassy without their master’s consent. But what, exactly, were they planning now?
There were no Zashian shops or embassies here for them to loot. There was just Varazda, abandoned by his patron. A completely innocent bystander, who had already been attacked once.
Varazda was in the garden when they arrived at the top of the stairs. He was sitting on a bench by the fountain with his feet tucked up, looking decorative and very, very Zashian. His hair was in two braids, looped up on either side and pinned behind his ears, framing the long pendants of his earrings. His eyes were dramatically painted.
“You there, slave!” one of the students called out. “Fetch us some wine.”
“Why is he still here?” Gelon asked loudly as Varazda swished away. “Didn’t I hear his master had been urgently summoned back to Boukos?”
There was a little pause.
“Did you?” said Helenos blandly.
“Uh,” said Gelon. “Oh.”
“The Sasian does not belong to the mistress of the house,” Helenos explained to the newcomers, subtly redirecting the conversation. “Her staff is more conventional, in keeping with the style of her house. It is a fine, old-fashioned place, don’t you think?”
Damiskos looked around, anxious to get back to the beach and investigate the place where Gelon had been hiding in the bushes. But Gelon was staying put, glancing in Damiskos’s direction every so often. There was no chance to sneak off without him seeing, and no opportunity to follow him surreptitiously down to the beach either. Damiskos ground his teeth as the students launched into a debate about virtue like caricatures of themselves.
Varazda returned with wine, followed by a female slave with cups. When they had finished serving everyone, the woman departed, and Varazda remained. He came over to the bench where Damiskos was sitting, and elegantly but rather fussily arranged himself on the ground, with his legs tucked to one side, at Damiskos’s feet.
“If you could try not to act surprised … ” he murmured in Zashian.
“Of course,” Damiskos replied automatically.
He took a swallow of wine, trying to think what a man who wasn’t surprised to have Varazda sit down at his feet would do. He had no idea.
They were seated at a slight remove from the rest of the party, and one or two of the students had cast them curious looks, but no one said anything to Damiskos. Varazda folded his hands in his lap and looked at the ground.
Nione arrived and was listlessly polite to the newcomers. She gave Damiskos a strange look and did not speak to him.
“When you offered to help,” said Varazda in a low voice, still speaking Zashian.
“Yes. Anything. What can I do?”
“You can corroborate the story I’ve recently told our host.”
“Yes, of course. What have you told her?”
“I have told her that before Aristokles left, he sold me to you.”
That landed on Damiskos like a rockslide, though he realized he should have guessed it as soon as Varazda sat at his feet.
“You’ve … uh. Yes, I see how that will help. I suppose I should have thought of it myself.”
“I am very glad you didn’t. I would have refused any such proposal coming from you.”
“Oh. Yes. I quite see that. Rightly so. Why did I, er, buy you, do you think?”
“Well,” said Varazda dryly, “it could be that you are buying up slaves to work your olive farm. But I think it might go over a little better if we say you appealed to Aristokles’s sentimental side to let you have me at a price you could afford because you’ve developed a fondness for me.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Damiskos managed. “I’m sure you could do a fine job of picking olives.”
Varazda looked as if he was struggling, very prettily, to suppress a smile.
“First Spear, I do appreciate that this puts you in an awkward position, and I wish I could have thought of a better story to account for my presence. If it is any comfort, you should know that I would not have told this particular lie if I had thought you would take advantage of it.”
“Yes, I see. Thank you. I won’t.”
“I know,” said Varazda patiently.
Aradne had come out, followed by the cringing Niko, to glare at the new guests and take a headcount.
“Tell the kitchen five more for dinner, Niko. I’m off to find something for them to sleep on.” Her tone suggested whatever she found would not be very comfortable. “Can I put some of them in Aristokles’s room?” she asked, turning to Nione.
“Yes, for now. His, um—Pharastes—told me this morning that he took the coast road to Laokia on an errand he wished to keep secret. I’m not sure when he will be back.”
Damiskos looked down at Varazda, wondering what gesture he could make to signal to the students that Varazda was now his property. He could touch him casually. That would be the sort of thing a master might do to a slave, especially one to whom he was supposedly attracted. He could reach out a hand and brush his fingers around the outside of one looped-up braid, flick a dangling earring in passing, perhaps graze the pale shell of Varazda’s ear with his fingertips.
He sat picturing the exact route his hand would travel, the movements his muscles would make. He couldn’t bring himself to make them.
It was repellant. It would make him no better than the sort of man he had imagined Aristokles to be.
What would Nione think of him?
Well, whatever it was, she probably already thought it, and he wasn’t helping Varazda by sitting here looking awkward.
“May I touch you?” he asked in Zashian.
Varazda glanced up, surprise flickering in his eyes for a moment.
“Yes,” he said stiffly. “I think you had better.”
Damiskos put out his hand and laid it on Varazda’s shoulder. It wasn’t the right kind of gesture at all. It looked like something you might do to comfort a grieving friend. Probably he had a frown on his face to match.
Varazda’s shoulder tensed, then relaxed minutely as he looked down at Damiskos’s fingers. He lifted his own hand to Damiskos’s, interlacing their fingers, turning the gesture into something else, something intimate and emotion-laden. It told a completely different story than the proprietary brush of the hand that Damiskos had contemplated and baulked at. It suggested Varazda might be glad to have been bought by Damiskos. Maybe they had talked about it beforehand; maybe Damiskos had promised to treat Varazda better than Aristokles Phoskos. It was perfectly judged.
Varazda looked up at Damiskos through his lashes, and Damiskos thought he was awfully good at this. Much better than Aristokles had been.
“You’re the Boukossian agent,” Damiskos said, as it flashed into his mind. “Not Aristokles.”
Varazda looked shyly down at the ground. “Mm. Perhaps we could talk about that later.”
Damiskos looked up and realized they were the centre of attention. Most of the students were looking disgusted. Helenos was frowning deeply. Eurydemos looked ready to compose another poem.
Nione was the only one who was smiling, but she also looked ready to burst into tears.
Looking flustered and embarrassed was probably the best thing Damiskos could have done, and if so, he played his part admirably.
Nione stood up abruptly. “Damiskos! I meant to ask you if your—if Pharastes—could dance for us tonight? We’re having a bonfire on the beach. The men who run my factory follow Opos, and it’s Hapikon Eve tonight. I like to hold some celebration for them. You are all welcome to join us.”
Damiskos looked down at Varazda for guidance. He was smiling and looking shy again, so Damiskos said, “It is up to him. I’ve no objection.”
Varazda gave Nione his gracious agreement, and she beamed at him and Damiskos. After a strained silence, it was Kleitos who spoke.
“Why did you ask his permission? I thought the Sasian belonged to Aristokles?”
“Well, they, they came to an agreement.” Nione had sat back down again, but fidgeted as though she wanted to get up and leave.
“I bought him,” said Damiskos bluntly. He wanted to get this over with. “Yesterday afternoon.”
“Really?” Kleitos looked surprised. “Yesterday afternoon? Huh.” He glanced around at Helenos, who showed no reaction.
“What for?” one of the new students asked, with a rather unpleasant, half-lidded smile.
Damiskos raised his eyebrows. “I need workers for my olive farm.”