A LETTER FROM Aristokles arrived the following morning. Damiskos was at breakfast with Nione and Tyra when the young slave Niko brought it in. The students, mercifully, were too hungover to be present, and their master had not come down either.
Damiskos and Tyra waited politely while their host opened the tablet and read its contents. Nione set it on the table by the basket of bread, frowning. She shook out her skirt as if to rise, then subsided into her chair and looked at Damiskos.
“I don’t want to embarrass you, Damiskos,” she said, clearly embarrassed herself, “only I wondered if you might have some idea why Pharastes lied to me about his master’s—his former master’s—whereabouts?”
Damiskos desperately wanted to unfold the full story to her on the spot, but he couldn’t do it in front of Tyra—couldn’t do it at all, in fact, without betraying Varazda’s trust.
“I … I can only think that Aristokles must have instructed him to do so.”
“Yes, I suppose that may be.”
“Would you like me to speak to him for you?”
“Perhaps we could send for him now.”
Well, it had been worth a try.
She sent Niko to fetch Varazda. Damiskos half expected the boy to come back alone to report that Varazda had vanished now too, but he didn’t. He came back followed by Varazda, who looked to Damiskos’s eyes as though he had neither slept much nor had any breakfast. His hair was pulled back in a simple twist, and he had no earrings in or kohl around his eyes. He was wearing the trousers he had worn yesterday, with a plain white shirt.
“May I speak to him?” Nione asked, before Varazda had arrived at their table.
“What? Oh, yes, of course.”
“Pharastes, I hope you can clear up a misunderstanding for me,” Nione said. “I received a letter from your previous master this morning. He says he was called away by a family crisis—he had a message from home yesterday and left on the same ship that brought the letter. I do not know what ship that was, or where it docked—it cannot have been the ship from Pheme that we saw yesterday afternoon. And all this is quite different from the account of his departure that you gave me.”
Varazda let a moment pass in uncomfortable silence, an expression of shocked distress on his face.
“Indeed, my lady,” he said finally. “I knew nothing of this. He told me that he was travelling to the village—I can only think that his plans must have changed suddenly. But by the time of his departure, of course, I was no longer his slave. I suppose he does not mention me in his letter?”
Damiskos saw an opportunity and leaned forward to pick up the letter before Nione could do so. He flipped it open, turned it around, and held it out toward Varazda.
“You can see for yourself that he doesn’t,” he said.
Nione took the letter back from Damiskos, giving him a rather annoyed look. “He did not,” she told Varazda gently, assuming that of course he could not read.
Damiskos didn’t know that he could, but he was hoping that he might at least recognize Aristokles’s writing. If it was Aristokles’s writing.
“I suppose what you say must be true,” said Nione. “I can think of no other explanation. But it is strange that he should have packed all his belongings for a journey down to Laokia, and strange that he should not have told anyone when he decided to take ship suddenly instead. After all, he had time to write this message for me and leave it with one of the fishermen.”
“It is very strange, my lady.”
“He’s a bit of a strange man,” Tyra put in. “I had a really peculiar conversation with him. He kept talking about being afraid of something.”
“Perhaps, Damiskos,” said Nione, “you might inquire in the stables for me—did Aristokles take a horse when he left, and do they know where he intended to go?”
“Of course.”
“I’m sure it will all prove to be some kind of misunderstanding.”
“I expect so,” said Damiskos. He pushed back his chair. “I’ll go right now, if you don’t mind.”
He and Varazda left together.
“Do I find he took a horse, or no?” Damiskos asked when they were in the hallway leading into the house.
Varazda ground the heels of his hands into his eyes for a moment, an uncharacteristically inelegant gesture. “Yes. I think we want my story to hold up while theirs doesn’t. Or—I don’t know. This is rather a mess.”
“It is that.”
“Anyway, you can ask in the stables—I already paid the grooms to say Aristokles took a horse and someone from the village brought it back. And no, Aristokles didn’t write that letter.”
“I was going to ask. You’re sure?”
“Quite sure. It was nothing like his writing, wasn’t sealed with his ring—nothing about it looked right.”
“Divine Terza.”
“I am going to spend the morning on a tour of the villa, looking for places where one could hide a body.”
Damiskos digested that for a moment. “If that’s what you’re doing,” he said firmly, “I’m coming with you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am. I’m besottedly in love with you, remember? No one will think it odd if we’re inseparable all day. And no one will have the opportunity to murder you, either.”
Varazda gave him a look that could only be described as a silent snarl.
Damiskos did not exactly follow Varazda around all day, but only because it didn’t take all day to search the villa. He accompanied Varazda to the wine cellars, where he browsed among the bottles while Varazda looked in corners and behind barrels. When one of the household slaves came down to fetch some wine, Damiskos engaged him in conversation so that he would not notice Varazda, and accompanied him upstairs and then loitered around the cellar door, pretending to admire some mosaics, until Varazda returned.
“Oh, good,” said Varazda sarcastically. “You’re still here.”
“You didn’t find anything.”
“Of course not.”
In the stables, much the same process was repeated, with Damiskos chatting with the grooms while Varazda sneaked about. This time it was Varazda who was waiting outside the stable-yard gate, leaning against the wall and looking elaborately bored, when Damiskos finished admiring the horses and finally emerged.
“Sorry about that. Got caught up.”
“Mm. Fun for you.”
Damiskos sighed.
In the kitchen wing, Damiskos pretended to want a snack while Varazda pretended to be looking in the storerooms for the ingredients to make a special Zashian dish.
“I wouldn’t have thought he knew how to boil water,” the head cook remarked, looking after Varazda. “Begging your pardon, sir.”
Damiskos shrugged and laughed.
He probably didn’t. He came back empty-handed, claiming that they didn’t have whatever it was he needed; he also claimed, wisely, not to know what it was called in Pseuchaian.
“Still nothing?” said Damiskos when they had left the kitchen.
“Still nothing.”
“Well, I suppose in this context, ‘nothing’ is good.”
Varazda shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m going down to the fish-sauce factory to look around there, and then I’m going to walk to that village that I pretended Aristokles went to. Please don’t come with me, First Spear. I will be fine, and I think … I’m sorry, but I think you have already walked enough today.”
That caught Damiskos by surprise, not only the words but the tone in which they were said. Clearly Varazda realized he wouldn’t like to hear that—even seemed to understand, or at least to care.
“I—” Instinctively he wanted to say he was fine, but he wasn’t. His knee had been hurting all morning after walking so much yesterday without his cane, and the prospect of sitting down and resting it for a few hours was pitifully appealing.
“Wait for me in the garden or the library,” Varazda suggested, “and I’ll come find you when I’ve done. If I’m not back by sunset, you have my leave to raise the alarm.”
“I don’t like it, Varazda.”
“Neither do I, First Spear. I don’t like anything about it. I will see you soon.”
It was still well before dinner, and the sun was still high in the sky. Damiskos had been reading in the library—well, sitting in the library with a book open in his lap—for an hour when Helenos, Gelon, and Phaia came in.
“Oh look,” said Gelon, “it’s Damiskos.”
“First Spoon of the Quartermaster’s Office,” Phaia supplied.
Gelon giggled. “Oh, that’s rather good!”
“Stop it, you two,” said Helenos mildly. “It is not a laughing matter.”
“I thought it was sort of funny,” said Damiskos equably.
“You took a wrong turn, Damiskos Temnon,” said Helenos, “but you could have the respect of the whole Republic again, if you tried. I don’t believe you are really so far gone.”
In a moment he was going to say something that would really hurt. Something about Damiskos searching for meaning, not being the man he used to be—Helenos’s solution would be that Damiskos should join with him in fomenting war with Zash so that he could restore his lost honour, and Damiskos didn’t think he would find that tempting, but he really had no desire to find out for sure.
While he was searching for something to say to shut Helenos up, he looked past the students and saw Varazda arrive in the doorway.
Varazda had been out walking, and it had put some colour in his cheeks. His hair was a little tugged-about by the wind, a few strands escaping the neat knot from the morning. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his shirt unfastened at the throat.
Damiskos swung his legs down from the footstool and stood, dropping his scroll, which unrolled across the floor. He heard a scornful laugh from the students. He honestly didn’t care.
“Darling,” said Varazda. He said it in Zashian, but the way he said it, one didn’t need to speak the language to know what kind of term it was.
Damiskos remembered kissing him the night before, the scent of his perfume, the softness of his lips.
“Uh. You’re back.”
Varazda came across the room to pick up the dropped scroll, roll it back up, and hand it to Damiskos.
“Let’s go,” said Damiskos.
“The Painted Urn?” Varazda said as the door closed behind them.
“What?”
“The Painted Urn. What you were reading. An interesting choice. Not Tyreus’s most popular play, but a good one, I’ve heard.”
Damiskos looked at him. “You don’t need to prove to me that you can read.”
Varazda said nothing, and Damiskos thought he might have scored a rather roundabout point there. He wondered why he felt the need to think of it that way.
“So did you find anything?”
Varazda gave a one-shouldered shrug. “No one saw Aristokles in the village or down at the factory—though there’s no one there but the fishermen now. The man who received the note to give to Nione said he got it this morning from one of the students, but he couldn’t remember which one.
“Oh, and a rowboat went missing last night and reappeared on the beach this morning, and the factory workers think someone broke into one of their outbuildings and moved things around without taking anything.”
“I see.” Damiskos didn’t like to spell out what that might mean in connection with Aristokles’s disappearance.
Apparently neither did Varazda. “It’s not much and may not be related, but it is what I’ve been able to come up with.”
“You’ve been very thorough,” said Damiskos, because it was the truth. “I think you have done all you can for today.”
“Mm. You may be right.”
“I’m going to ask Niko about getting a mattress for that extra bed in your room,” Damiskos said. It would look odd to the other slaves, but no one would protest; he was a free man and entitled to his eccentricities.
Varazda groaned. “Oh, First Spear.”
“You call me that to annoy me, don’t you?”
“If it’s not working, I’ll stop.”
Damiskos snorted. “Is there a lock on your door?”
“No, of course not.”
“Well, then. I’m sleeping on that other bed. I’ll sleep there without a mattress if I have to.”
“No, no, I will personally find a mattress for you. I wouldn’t want you to enjoy yourself too much.”
“Good. So that’s settled.”
They stood for a moment in the yard. Varazda’s expression lost its mocking cast and became thoughtful.
“You haven’t told Nione the truth yet, have you?”
“No, of course not,” said Damiskos.
“It’s just that she said you are her friend.” Varazda shrugged. “And she was very understanding about … well, my alleged situation. When I went to tell her that Aristokles had left and sold me to you, she congratulated me on having a good master now. She seemed to think you would free me directly.”
“She’s probably wondering why I haven’t.”
“I defer to you, as you know her better, but I think we could trust her with at least some of this. And as it is all happening in her house, her assistance could be very beneficial.”
It struck Damiskos that what Varazda was really doing here was trusting him, and he was rather moved by it.
“I think you’re right,” he said after a moment. “But let me take some time to consider how best to talk to her.”
“Of course. On an unrelated note, how’s your leg?”
“Much better, thanks.”
“Do you fancy sparring a little?”
“Do I what?”
“Fancy sparring. With me. I expect you could teach me a few things.”
“I expect I could.”
He smiled, surprised. It had been a friendly overture, unmistakably. Even if his leg hadn’t been better—and it really was—he would have wanted to say yes.
“And they might come in useful.”
“What?”
“The things you might teach me. Or at least—it might be useful for you to be seen teaching me.”
“Ah. Yes. Can’t hurt to let it get around that you know how to do more with a sword than dance.”
“Exactly.”
Varazda fetched his swords, and they squared off in the slaves’ courtyard. They began with some easy exercises to warm up. Varazda already knew some of these, and the ones he did not know he picked up quickly. By the time they began fencing in earnest, they had an audience, loitering under the stairs and leaning over the railing above.
The two blades met, ringing with an unexpectedly pure note, like a bell. Varazda was caught off-guard by it; Damiskos was too, but he recovered more quickly. He slipped his sword free and brought it down on Varazda’s arm, in what would have been a devastating slash if the swords had been sharp and Damiskos had put power behind it. Varazda jumped back, startled, and laughed.
Then he recovered, meeting Damiskos’s next attack with a stylish little flourish and a precision that Damiskos had not expected. They fenced a few more passes, Varazda clearly giving it everything he had, Damiskos not remotely so—just observing, learning his opponent’s limits.
If his life had followed its first trajectory and he had grown up as the son of a noble Zashian household, Varazda would have made an excellent swordsman. But he had not, and the skills he had cultivated were not all ones that mattered in an actual fight. His instinct was to sacrifice speed and force for style, and he was used to thinking only about his own movement, not predicting the attacks of an opponent. He was beautiful to watch, but he was no match for Damiskos. When Damiskos began to really press him, he gave ground quickly.
He was very fair-minded, though—or perhaps ‘considerate’ was a better word for it. His biggest advantage against Damiskos was that he was much faster on his feet, but he refused to use it. He would dodge Damiskos’s attacks, but without moving more than a few steps, effectively neutralizing Damiskos’s weakness.
Damiskos had sparred with other men, in the years since his injury, who had done the same, but none that he could remember who had done it so gracefully—without saying anything about it, without seeming to have to work at it. If he hadn’t been having so much fun, it might have brought tears to his eyes.
He swung in earnest, hitting Varazda’s blade with his full strength, once, twice, three times, driving him back. Varazda actually shrieked.
It was put on—he obviously wasn’t really scared—but it was very funny, and Damiskos lost all form and composure and burst out laughing. Varazda seized his moment and swatted him on the flank with the flat of his blade, not hard enough to hurt. The watchers hissed and hooted.
Varazda had not been joking when he had suggested he could learn something, and after this he insisted that Damiskos teach him a couple of attacks, and put serious attention into learning them. Damiskos suggested techniques that would take advantage of Varazda’s strengths: his height, his speed, his dancer’s ease of movement.
This part was less entertaining to watch, and their audience gradually melted away so that by the time they were both tired and the light was fading, they were alone in the courtyard.
“Thank you,” Varazda said, taking back Damiskos’s sword and making a crisper, more military version of his usual courtly bow.
“My pleasure,” said Damiskos sincerely.
They stood there for a moment, and it struck Damiskos suddenly that if they had still had an audience he would have had an excuse to lean in and give Varazda a kiss. But they didn’t.
It was time for Damiskos to be going in for a bath before dinner, time for Varazda to rejoin the slaves as they prepared for the evening. Neither of them moved from where they stood.
Varazda said, “It has been five years since you left your command, I think you said?”
“Five years in the autumn.”
“You must have been superb.”
Damiskos shrugged and looked at the ground in the middle distance. “I was good.”
“You’re very good now, even with a foreign blade.”
“Well, it’s a style of fighting I’ve always liked. And I liked to challenge myself.”
“I’m sorry they took that from you.”
Damiskos looked up, surprised. “What do you mean, ‘they’?”
Varazda’s eyebrows went up a fraction. “I don’t know. I must have misspoken.”
But Damiskos was pretty sure he hadn’t.
“Well,” said Varazda after another moment, “I must let you go in. I don’t think you want to join me in the slave baths—they’re one of the unimproved parts of the house. Rather ghastly.”
Damiskos chuckled, as he was obviously meant to do. “I am glad to be spared that.”
“I’ll see you later, then,” said Varazda.
Damiskos watched him walk away toward the door into the slave quarters. He felt a pull, somewhere in his soul, strong as a river running downhill, an urge to follow Varazda. He didn’t care how ghastly the slave bath was, what the slaves were having for dinner, or when they got to eat (he was used to a soldier’s life, after all). He just wanted to be near Varazda.
He hadn’t felt that pull, that helpless yearning, in years. But he had felt it before, often enough, when he was younger, and he knew well enough what it was. He could stop pretending to be in love with Varazda now, because he really was.