Sword Dance

by A. J. Demas

  Dria’s roommate arrived in the courtyard with a bottle and cups from the kitchen. With thanks and more apologies to Varazda, the two women retreated to their room.

  “It was Gelon, in case you were wondering,” said Varazda, “and what he wanted to know was where my bedroom is.”

  “Daughters of Night.”

  “Mm. I thought I’d better not switch rooms, or someone else might get stabbed in the night.”

  “Right.” For a moment he thought to suggest his own room. But there was only one bed … he would have to offer to sleep on the floor, or …

  They climbed the stairs and arrived at Varazda’s door.

  Damiskos said, “Shall I take first watch, or will you?”

  “Oh, First Spear. Only you would miss the opportunity to say ‘We’d better not sleep much tonight, ha ha’—in favour of setting up a watch rota.”

  Damiskos drew himself up sternly. “Under the circumstances, I would find it unacceptably crass to make that kind of remark. So I will take that as a compliment.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t meant as one?” He gave Damiskos a hurt look.

  “I—I’m sorry.”

  “I am teasing you, Damiskos. But I can stop. At least,” he amended, “I can try to stop.” He opened the door and held it for Damiskos to enter.

  Damiskos smiled. “No. No, I’m not offended. I’m s—” He stopped himself from saying “sorry” again. “I’m on edge, that’s all.”

  That wasn’t all, really; there was also the fact that he wanted to unpin Varazda’s hair and bury his face in it, kiss Varazda’s white throat, maybe push Varazda against a wall with his hands on Varazda’s tiny waist and slide his palms down to feel the shape of Varazda’s firm ass through his trousers …

  “You’re not the only one.”

  “What?”

  “The only one on edge,” Varazda said patiently.

  “No. Oh. No, I suppose I’m not. This must be intolerable for you. I mean, with your, your colleague missing and … ”

  He wasn’t sure what to say, and his eye fell on the spare bed, which was still without a mattress. His heart sank a little; he really hadn’t wanted to sleep on the bare cords. Though if they were going to sleep in shifts, then presumably he could … they could both …

  … the pillow and the sheets would smell of Varazda’s perfume …

  “I didn’t forget about the extra mattress, in case you were wondering,” Varazda said. “Rhea said she would find one and have it brought up after she was finished her evening duties.”

  “Ah.”

  “Here, sit.”

  He cleared space on his own bed, pulled the cover across, and sat himself, perched on the edge, his long legs stretched out. Damiskos sat beside him, leaning back on his hands. The day had left him tired.

  They sat in silence for a few moments. Damiskos studied Varazda’s profile, the clean, smooth lines of it, the slightly aquiline nose, the elegant arch of eyebrow.

  When you looked closely, you could see his lineage written in the bones of his face. Damiskos had seen countless faces like it—some marked with scars, some weatherbeaten and lined with age—on the battlefields and in the noblemen’s strongholds of the Deshan Coast. That wasn’t the part of Zash that he had loved, and its haughty tribesmen were not the people he had liked best, but he had respected them, as one had to respect worthy enemies. It was strange to be reminded of them when he looked at Varazda. And it was strange that he hadn’t been reminded of them sooner.

  “Aristokles is probably dead,” Varazda said, “and I … If he is, I feel responsible. He was afraid he was in danger—afraid we both were—and I dismissed his fear instead of doing anything to insure it was unfounded.”

  “You thought the only danger was to yourself.”

  Varazda nodded. “That’s no excuse.”

  “You … you’re fond of him, I guess.” In spite of everything, he still found himself returning to this. He still wanted to know.

  “What? No, not at all. He’s been nothing but a nuisance. That doesn’t mean I wanted him killed.”

  “No, no. Of course not. Was he just here to give you an excuse to come to Laothalia?”

  Varazda nodded. “He was planning to visit Pheme and had a useful connection that could get him invited to Laothalia. He was strong-armed into the mission by a cousin on the Basileon. He was never comfortable with it, didn’t really know what the mission was about except that it’s dangerous … ” Varazda sighed. “You see why I feel guilty.”

  “Yes.” He managed to sit there there for a minute or two with a sympathetic look on his face before he said, “So if Aristokles was never really your master … ”

  “What was I? In Zash I was a dancer in the king’s household at Gudul—a provincial palace in the north, you probably don’t know it. When the permanent embassy in Boukos was established, seven years ago, His Radiancy sent slaves and furniture from each of his palaces to outfit it, and I was one of the articles sent from Gudul. It was me and a bed and some wall-hangings.”

  As if he had been a thing, this beautiful person. And those goat-fuckers in the dining room could argue that slavery was a part of the natural order and essential to good government.

  Varazda went on, “Then on the first anniversary of the establishment of the embassy, all of the household was freed, as part of a birthday celebration. There were only three eunuchs in the household at that time, and we thought that the manumission wouldn’t include us, because as you know, in Zash, we could not have been freed. But”—he shrugged—“in Boukos we could, and we were. So. I have been a Boukossian citizen six years now, and I am a free eunuch—one of three, as far as I know, in the world.”

  “That’s wonderful,” said Damiskos earnestly. “I’m—I’m delighted for you. I should have said that a long time ago.”

  Varazda waved a hand dismissively, but he also smiled. “I really did not give you an opportunity, did I?”

  CHAPTER XI

  “SO WHAT DO you do now,” said Damiskos, “when you’re not—I mean, back in Boukos, what do you do?”

  “Dance, mostly.” Varazda smiled. “In all the best households. I’m terribly in demand. Of course they all know who I am—I don’t pretend to be anyone’s property—but you’d be surprised how much people take you for granted, no matter how fashionable or famous you are, when you’re the entertainment.”

  “And you spy on them?” Damiskos couldn’t keep the delight out of his voice.

  “It sounds so vulgar, when you put it like that,” said Varazda affectedly. Damiskos snorted. “I can’t tell you what I really do, First Spear—you are a foreign citizen, you work for the Phemian army. I’ve already told you more than I should. But you have got the general idea.”

  “And … it’s satisfying work? You enjoy it?”

  “Enormously. It pays well, too. I own my house and support my family in reasonable style.”

  “Wonderful,” Damiskos said warmly, instead of, “Family? How … What … Family?”

  Varazda looked at him for a moment. “Let me show you something,” he said finally.

  He rummaged in his luggage and brought out something wrapped in a cloth. He unwrapped it and held out a large, flat shell with a miniature painting on the inside: a half-length portrait of a smiling little girl with dark brown skin and black hair in two stubby braids.

  “She’s beautiful,” said Damiskos, smiling up from the portrait at Varazda.

  “She’s my daughter.”

  Damiskos looked back down at the picture. “What’s her name?”

  “Remi. She’s three.”

  There was a long silence. Damiskos realized Varazda was waiting for him to ask something—“How did you get her?” or “What happened to her real parents?”—and hoping that he wouldn’t. But giving him lots of time, just to make sure.

  “Thank you for showing me,” Damiskos said.

  Varazda wrapped the picture up and replaced it in his luggage. “What about you?” he sai
d ambiguously.

  “I don’t have any children.”

  “You’re married, though?”

  “No. No, I can’t afford to marry. Not that there’s any woman sitting around waiting for me to be able to afford it.”

  “I see.” He looked faintly surprised, but whether by the lack of a wife or because he had assumed Damiskos made a decent salary, Damiskos wasn’t sure.

  After a moment, Varazda said, “The other people in my household are—I call them family, but we’ve no official relation, we’re technically friends who live together. Yazata keeps house for us, and Tash is studying to be a sculptor. They’re the other two eunuchs who were freed at the same time I was.”

  “I see.”

  “I don’t have a … I mean, under Boukossian law, I think probably I could marry, but it’s not something I ever plan on doing, and I don’t have a lover.” He cleared his throat delicately. “Not that that’s relevant.”

  It struck Damiskos as being extremely relevant; or rather, the fact that Varazda had thought to mention it just now, in a strangely hesitant way that was very different from his usual manner, that seemed monumentally relevant.

  “I enjoyed myself last night,” Damiskos said.

  Varazda went still. The comfortable mood of a moment ago was gone. Damiskos almost swore aloud at his own stupidity.

  “Did you.”

  “Well, the parts that were enjoyable. I enjoyed watching you dance—I enjoyed that a great deal. And after … I mean, the business with the students was touch and go and pretty ghastly, but even still, I … I wished that we had been properly alone in that hut.”

  “Oh. You got over your disgust, did you? Enough to enjoy yourself?”

  “Disgust? What?”

  “That might not have been the word you used. Perhaps it was ‘horror.’”

  “What … ” He had been so sure he knew where this was going, but now he was lost again. He tried to remember when he had said anything like “horror” the night before. “Oh! Immortal gods—do you mean what I said about Shahaz’s father’s business? Of course that filled me with horror, it’s—it’s a horrible thing, and to discover that the family I was proposing to join made their money from such a thing? ‘Horror’ was the right word—‘disgust’ would have done too. But I wasn’t trying to suggest that I was horrified by you—or disgusted by eunuchs in general. That wasn’t what I meant at all.”

  “No?” Varazda gave him a wary look. “What did you mean? By telling me that.”

  “I meant … I meant that I felt angry on your behalf. I was trying to be sympathetic.”

  “Oh,” said Varazda tonelessly.

  “But look—it was misjudged, I can see that now, and I’m sorry. And I’m not—not looking for an apology from you so that I can feel good about myself. If my sympathy isn’t of any use to you, then it isn’t, and that’s how it is. But it isn’t disgust, I promise you that.”

  “I suppose I knew that.” He relaxed visibly, though not completely.

  “Well. I’m sure I could have expressed it better. It isn’t even pity, really. It was in the beginning, I admit, but then I got to know you, and I don’t think of you as an object of pity any longer. Didn’t, even before I found out that you’re free and have a family and a beautiful daughter.”

  Varazda smiled slightly. He was leaning back against the wall now, one leg drawn up and tucked under the other knee, looking at Damiskos thoughtfully.

  “You also said you prefer women. I have to assume you don’t usually spar with them, though.”

  “I’m not pretending you’re a woman, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “What are you pretending I am?”

  Damiskos shook his head and found himself saying, rather to his own surprise, “Not a damned difficult bastard. It isn’t easy.”

  Varazda gave a boyish shout of laughter. “Oh, all right. Well played.”

  “Look. I did say I prefer women. It wasn’t a lie. It was an exaggeration, but that was because I was trying to put you at ease. You were about to pass out from nerves. I was trying to be sympathetic. Again.”

  “That was before the other time.”

  “Shut up.”

  Varazda made a little mime of one of the parries that Damiskos had taught him that afternoon. Damiskos laughed. Then he fell silent, and they looked at one another for a long, charged moment.

  “You’re beautiful, Varazda. You take my breath away. Everything about you. I don’t expect—You don’t owe me anything for thinking that. My own preferences … my preferences are—were—formed by my experience, and I have been with both men and women, but never with anyone like you. Perhaps it took me a while to get used to how well I like that. Perhaps it took me longer than it should have.”

  “I like how seriously you take everything, Damiskos.”

  “I’m not—I mean, I do know how to enjoy myself. I think.”

  Varazda smiled. “I said I like it.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “I enjoyed myself last night, too.”

  “Ah,” said Damiskos. “Did you?”

  “Yes. In spite of everything.”

  “I’m glad. I was afraid … I wondered what had been done to you, that you are capable of … that you’re capable, and you know all these different, ah, techniques, but you don’t like it. I know that isn’t any of my business.”

  “I was a slave, Damiskos. We don’t get to say no.”

  “Right.”

  “It wasn’t any one thing. It was just years of not getting to say no—not getting to say yes, either, when I might have wanted to. Part of what freedom meant to me was freedom from that whole area.” He waved a hand dismissively.

  “I am so sorry, Varazda. The situation I helped to place you in last night … I can only beg your forgiveness.” And he had thought he had been doing the right thing by playing along.

  “I don’t think I’m quite bringing my point across. There … are … things I have wanted to say yes to.”

  “Oh, I see.” Another laden silence. “Such as?”

  “I like kissing. Sometimes.”

  “Last night?”

  “Yes.”

  Damiskos leaned forward to look at him. The gold stud in his nose glinted in the lamplight.

  “I’ve been trying to remember,” Varazda said, with a self-conscious lightness, “whether I had ever kissed a man without a beard before last night. I don’t think I had.”

  “I have a beard,” said Damiskos, rubbing his jaw.

  “You have stubble—I meant a beard.” He made an explanatory gesture, wiggling his hennaed fingers.

  Damiskos laughed. “Right. And so—what did you think?”

  “Haven’t we covered that already?” Varazda’s voice was soft, and he was looking down at his hands in his lap. “I liked it. I was turned on. That … as you may have gathered … doesn’t happen all that easily.”

  It obviously cost him so much to talk about this, and Damiskos didn’t know if he was ashamed to have desires at all, or that his desires were not equal to an intact man’s, or what. He wondered if Varazda was even sure what bothered him.

  Rather boldly, Damiskos said, “Want to see if we can make it happen again?”

  Varazda looked up in surprise. “What—right now?”

  “Yes, of course right now! Immortal gods. We’re sitting on your bed, talking about how beautiful you are and whether or not you like sex—it’s surprising I even needed to say anything.”

  “I am literally a eunuch, First Spear.”

  After that they were both laughing, Varazda giggling helplessly at his own joke, and the mood had shifted again. Varazda reached out and slid his fingers into Damiskos’s hair, taking a gentle handful, and leaned in and kissed him, as gracefully as he had done in the doorway in front of Helenos years ago, or whenever it had been.

  The first kiss became a whole series of kisses, gentle and uncomplicated. For Damiskos it was like kissing someone he’d known for years. Warm and intima
te and comfortable. Varazda drew back and looked at him for a moment, his lips red, his expression open and affectionate.

  “That’s your yes?” said Damiskos.

  “Very much so.”

  They moved together again, a little awkwardly this time. There was some fumbling and a near-collision before they sorted out what they wanted; Damiskos pulled Varazda onto his lap, and Varazda settled himself carefully astride Damiskos’s thighs, bracing his hands against the wall by the bed. Damiskos took Varazda’s face between his hands and kissed him again.

  Varazda shifted his hips, moving closer, and Damiskos moaned.

  “Sorry,” Varazda murmured against his lips.

  “Uh? Sorry for what?”

  “I don’t know—was that the wrong thing, or not enough of the right thing?”

  He had rubbed up against Damiskos’s cock, and Damiskos would certainly have liked much more of that, any time.

  “You’re out of practice, huh?” he said. “With your lilies and your pomegranates and whatever.”

  “Shut up.”

  Damiskos laughed. His fingers burrowed into Varazda’s hair, and the kiss that followed was messy and urgent.

  “Show me what else you like,” Damiskos gasped when they finally drew apart.

  Varazda reached up and pulled out one of the ivory combs that held his hair up. Damiskos caught his other hand and moved it away so he could release the second comb himself. Varazda’s hair tumbled down, and he shook it out. Damiskos sifted it through his hands and stroked it back from Varazda’s face. It was soft and thick, slightly wavy even when it hadn’t been braided, and absolutely black. Varazda closed his eyes under the slow caress. He made a little noise like a sigh.

  Damiskos wanted to go to the king’s palace in Gudul, wherever that was, and seek out the godsforsaken fuckers who had given Varazda such a distaste for sex that he had spent years avoiding something he obviously enjoyed. He’d throw them out a window.

  He brushed his thumb over the gold flower stud in Varazda’s nose. He remembered thinking that Varazda’s master must have made him wear it, not knowing what it signified except an exotic decadence. But Varazda was free and had chosen how to decorate himself.