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The very moment the imperial airship began its descent, Damianos could feel it. The gleaming polished floor, inlaid with faience and lapis and chips of ebony, slanted beneath his feet; he heard the flap of sails, the muted creak of ropes and wooden struts, the distant hiss of channeled aithēr.

So they were nearly there.

Damianos drew a long slow breath and kept his expression bland, remote, his shoulders even; he focused his attention on choosing a sufficiently arrogant angle at which to hold his chin, and did not think at all about the docks waiting below.

And then the doors across from him swung wide, and Alexandros entered, bowing low. It did nothing to disguise the way his lip curled when he looked at Damianos, but at least he bothered to make the gesture. That was something.

"Sebastos," he murmured, straightening again.

Coming off his tongue the title was an insult, but Damianos did not acknowledge it as such. He was used to it, from Alexandros—who had been assigned to his escort, yes, but was Philippos's man if he was anyone's; and Damianos would have assumed Alexandros was there to kill him except that for once that was unlikely.

Not that Philippos approved of this journey. Far from it—he had never cared to be at peace with anyone, and was disinterested in acquiring a taste for it. But he was not basileios, and the basileios had made a treaty with Kumat, and if Philippos had Damianos murdered on the airship then the basileios would almost certainly learn of it and would not be pleased. No, it was much more probable that Damianos's brother had arranged for Alexandros to be sent along simply in order that he might know the way of things. That Alexandros hated Damianos would only have made it sweeter, to Philippos.

But there was nothing to be done but bear it. Damianos inclined his head, as though Alexandros had addressed him as reverently as could be asked, and then raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"Have we arrived, then?" Damianos said, idly, as though he did not much care whether the answer was yes or no.

"Very nearly," said Alexandros, and then took a stride nearer, leaning in—bold, but then this close to their destination, there was no reason for him to restrain himself. Damianos should have expected as much. "Yes, very nearly, and then we will be free of you at last. Pity the prince of Kumat! To have such a one as you given to him—a cruel slight indeed. With any luck he will know it and kill you for it within the day. The basileios could not ask for more, hm?"

Damianos did not flinch. He looked at Alexandros coolly, and then away, absently straightening the seams of his dalmatika and then smoothing it down across his chest. "The basileios has chosen peace—"

Alexandros laughed, sharp and snide. "If you believe that," he said, "you truly are a fool, Sebastos. We were but spearlengths from breaking the Kumati lines at Djan'nutjer, and would have won the war then and there for our trouble. The basileios has not chosen peace; he tolerates it, because it costs him nothing but a bastard son and a little time, and when this feeble ceasefire is broken and our legions are unleashed anew, they will not stop until they have toppled the very walls of Kem Tjeku. And on that day all the Grand Basileia will rejoice." He paused, as though in thought, and then added, "Except, perhaps, for you. But who can say, Sebastos? Ten days before the delegation will arrive with the seal of the basileios. Even you might last that long, at least."

Damianos gave him a mild, incurious stare. "At least," he agreed, bland.

"Or perhaps," Alexandros murmured, "you will find some way or other to please the prince of Kumat enough to convince him to keep you," but his tone suggested that he found this possibility an extremely unlikely one.

And then, at last, he withdrew, one more stiff bow in Damianos's direction before he turned and stalked out; and Damianos waited for the doors to shut behind him and then closed his eyes, pressing the heel of his hand to the bridge of his nose.

Ten days. If he could last at least that long, then—then there was a chance, surely, that the prince of Kumat would take pity on him, send him home with the delegation instead of having him executed. In a misguided attempt to curry favor with the basileios, even, because perhaps he would not know any better. If the delegation came at all; if the fickle winds of the basileios's court had not changed even as they traveled, if some new scheme or plot had not already been set in motion. And otherwise—

Otherwise, there was no hope. He could not kill the prince of Kumat, and if he did he would only die himself—here, at the hands of some enraged Kumati bodyguard, or after, dragged back to the grand palace in chains, for having dared to undermine the will of the basileios in such a way. Even if the peace did not last, Damianos had still been sent by the order of the basileios, and to kill the man to whom the basileios had given him was to contradict that order. He would not survive it.

But even if he lived, what chance did he have? Ten days or a lifetime, it did not matter; Damianos surely could not please the prince of Kumat if he had a thousand years to work out how it might be done. He had never had the talent of making himself amiable, not even to those closest to him, and there was no reason to think he would fare better in a strange land. A strange land where he had nothing of his own, no one loyal to him, where he would be dependent upon the goodwill of the prince of Kumat in all ways.

He bit his lip, and made himself breathe. He was fair, at least; he was tall, the shape of his face appealed, he had his mother's eyes. Perhaps that would be enough.

All he knew of Kumat was what he had heard, what he had been told: its sands, its stone, its endless heat. Bizarre animals, nearly all of whom could kill any man caught unawares, and vast cities filled with secret treasures, and the great barren inhospitable desert stretching out in all directions.

And in the middle of it all would be Damianos, alone, uncertain, surrounded by strangers who surely despised him and would no doubt take every opportunity to try to kill him.

He pressed a hand to his mouth so he would not laugh. When he thought of it that way—well. Perhaps this would not be so very different from his life in Auxentium after all.

Khanu stood upon the airship docks and squinted up into the sun.

Yes, unmistakably Graikoi. Not that any other airships but these would have been permitted to approach the moorings at the end of the imperial avenue today, of course. But their descent was slow and stately, dignified, and Khanu had nothing to do but observe.

Fascinating design, really. So few of the graceful curves and arcs Khanu was used to; but he could not in good conscience call them bulky. Angular, yes, and massive—their aithēr-nets looked so ethereal by comparison it was a wonder their supply was sufficient to bear them aloft. But they were if anything akin to—to vast blocks of stone, crocodiles lounging in the river: slow, yes, but nevertheless immense and undeniably powerful.

Not unlike the Grand Basileia itself, if one were inclined to metaphor. And certainly impressive.

But then the procession waiting for them was hardly less so. Khanu had never worn so much jewelry in his life, though luckily for him all that chain and lacquer and gleaming stone was cool, if heavy, even under the beating sun. His hair had been combed and oiled and plaited, threaded through with gold, and his mouth and eyes painted dark with stain, with kohl.

And he was surrounded by an escort that was hardly less ornamented, each one of them with a glittering khopesh in one hand and a spear pointing skyward in the other. And beyond them servants in fine linen scattering flowers, the fountains of the avenue flowing with water that had been sweetened with honey; double rows of bronze ibises with graceful curving necks, stretching and preening themselves with soft metallic susurrations, and above them loomed gilded elephants, polished mirror-bright, their complex inner workings visible here and there for brief instants when they lifted their burnished heads to trumpet low clear notes.

The nearer the airships drew, the heavier Khanu's heart felt in his chest and the harder it was to swallow, a knot winding itself tight in his throat. He repeated to himself silently the words he was intended to say, until he was sure he would not say them wrong.

And certainly it would not go so poorly as all that. Khanu could be pleasant; Khanu excelled at being pleasant, he enjoyed it very much, and he had had a great deal of practice. As long as this prince of the Grand Basileia did not hate Khanu, they could manage well enough. And no one hated Khanu.

The Graikoi ships moved so slowly it seemed at times they did not move at all. But then Khanu could not blame them: the air felt windless, stifling. Khanu knew how to be patient; he stood quietly, without fussing or fidgeting, and waited.

At last they had come low enough to drop ropes, and were hauled lower with all due speed, until their wide flat keels could be brought to rest upon the great marble mooring stones. There were three; but of the three, only one had a hull that was inlaid with broad straight lines of gold, square-angled patterns like labyrinths. Khanu fixed his eyes upon it and ignored the others, and once the bay doors had swung wide and a handful of soldiers and attendants had stepped forth, they were followed at last by a man who was undoubtedly the prince of the Grand Basileia.

Tall, Khanu thought. Tall, and reasonably striking; lovely hair, with a distinct tendency to curl, and dark but visibly reddish in the sunlight. He was looking away, at first—but then he turned his head, cool unreadable gray eyes roving the whole width of the imperial avenue, and Khanu felt a prickle of heat climb his spine. Yes, all right, if he had to take some Graikoi prince for a husband, he could not claim to mind overmuch that it was this one.

The prince—Damianos, Khanu recalled—stepped forward, gaze still wandering; and then his eyes caught on Khanu and he paused for a long moment, expressionless, just looking. When he began to move again, it was with a steady even stride, glancing neither right nor left, and he stopped a few paces from Khanu and—bowed, instead of kneeling. Fascinating.

"We are grateful for your hospitality and fellowship," he said, in painstaking Latiumite.

"We are blessed to receive you," Khanu answered in turn, and of course the formal words could not be altered, but he made his tone warm and gracious.

Damianos watched him flatly, and did not smile. After a moment more, he said more quietly, "Your generosity is appreciated."

He did not sound pleased, and Khanu wondered helplessly what had gone wrong. But—but perhaps that was foolish. That Damianos had ventured beyond the bounds of the ceremony in order to compliment Khanu could hardly be considered a bad sign; and if he sounded a bit stilted, well, everything sounded stilted in Latiumite.

Khanu knew how to be charming. He knew how to make people like him. Damianos was a prince of the Grand Basileia, come all the way from Auxentium itself to be Khanu's husband, and Khanu must not make him regret it.

So Khanu shook off all unpleasant thoughts, inclined his head politely, and smiled, and then gestured for the palanquin.

They did not see each other again until the evening.

Khanu could not claim to mind. It was soothing to have the opportunity to return to his chambers, to be within familiar walls; and of course he must be bathed and oiled again, in steaming water strewn with lotus blossoms, until he smelled like he himself was an entire imperial garden.

But the warm water felt good, and soon enough the tension was drained from his shoulders, his back, and some true measure of peace returned to him. He breathed the steam in deeply and then let his head tip back against the bath's edge, and tried to recall all that he had been told about Damianos.

Of course the usual compliments had been applied, that he was learned and wise and pious, that he was strong, that he was fair. At least that last, Khanu thought, had been proven accurate enough.

Not that any of it had been necessary. If Damianos had been an idiot hunchback, Khanu would still have taken him for a husband as long as the treaty with the Grand Basileia required it.

But Khanu was not a fool. He had listened very carefully to everything the Graikoi officials had had to say, when they were brought before the pharaoh; and then he had had one of their servants brought to him after, and offered the woman gifts in return for anything else she could tell him.

There had been a word used, "bastard", which Khanu had required be explained to him; he still did not wholly understand its import. Children of the pharaoh were children of the pharaoh. But apparently this was more complicated in some way in the Grand Basileia. Perhaps Damianos would be willing to describe how things were done there in greater detail, if Khanu asked.

The rumors of secret and unwholesome magicks were probably not true, and if Damianos had in fact fucked all his sisters and most of his brothers, then Khanu would be both very surprised and a little impressed. That a man had been executed for addressing him improperly was more plausible and more useful; if being respected mattered so greatly to Damianos as that, it was best for Khanu to know it. And to make sure all the servants who would attend to Damianos knew it, too.

And that a dead body had needed to be removed from Damianos's personal chambers in the grand palace—Khanu had not known what to think of that, and still did not. Perhaps it was only slander. Perhaps some argument had come to blows and then to worse, in which case Khanu must do his best to be careful of Damianos's temper; not that he had been planning to provoke Damianos in any case, but it was worth knowing exactly how mindful he must be, whether even a single error might end in disaster. Or—or perhaps he had tastes that were—that Khanu must work out some way to satisfy, whether he liked it or not—

Khanu blew out a slow breath, and opened his eyes to watch the steam swirl over him in reply. There was no use fretting. He would learn which possibility was truth in due time, and he would accept it; he would make sure Damianos was pleased with him, or at least not displeased, because the only other option was war. And that, Kumat could not afford.

The great hall in the river palace of the pharaoh of Kumat was vast, the walls white, painted and mosaicked with detailed scenes Damianos did not recognize and accompanied by picture-words he could not read. And it was all so—open, columns and wide doorways, a faint breeze rippling the cloth-of-gold and impossibly fine linens that draped here and there to the floor.

A faint breeze that Damianos was desperately grateful for, in his chiton and dalmatika and the very fine and far too heavy cloak that fastened over one of his shoulders. It was so hot here, it staggered the mind. He had noticed the simmering heat, aboard the airship; but that had been at midday, in full sun, and his heart had been pounding, his ears rushing, half of him aflame and half of him frozen. The true temperature had not been the matter uppermost in his mind.

But the sky had darkened, the evening star already risen and the sun nearly gone, and still, still, Damianos could hardly breathe for the heat. He could feel sweat trickling down his temples, along the back of his neck, underneath his arms; between his fingers, between his toes. He had worn fine shoes, embroidered with gold—but he would have given anything to be one of the servants of the pharaoh, who walked about barefoot on the cool stone floors.

At least he was not expected to stand. He had been escorted into the hall to find the Kumati prince already there waiting, seated, and Damianos had been seated beside him, to the strains of some Kumati instrument with which Damianos was not familiar and something that might have been a flute. The prince had held out his hand, calm, with a gracious smile, and Damianos had not known what to do except to take it in his own. And it seemed a great deal of oil and incense was to be burned, and that a great many people must come up to them and kneel before them and say loud things that were not in Latiumite, and which Damianos therefore had no hope of understanding.

But he could, at least, sit still. He could sit still, he could hold himself with whatever sweaty overheated dignity remained to him, and he could bear it; and so that was what he did.

And with nothing to listen to but the music, and all these rolling Kumati words he did not know, and nothing else to do but sit—there was nothing to think about except the prince who sat next to him.

He looked comfortable, Damianos thought. Then again, he was also—he had nothing on except some sort of fine cloth wrapped and pleated at his waist, faintly diaphanous under the lights of the hall. No clothes but that, at least; he did have a tremendous amount of jewelry, perhaps even more than he had been wearing earlier at the docks. Though not enough to obscure the remarkable smoothness of his chest, all the dips and swells and angles of muscle. And he still had all that—all that paint upon his face, the thick black lines around his dark eyes and the color on his mouth that was—Damianos kept finding himself staring at it, though of course that was horribly inappropriate. He had never seen a man with paints like that put on him, and it was—

It was very strange, Damianos thought distantly, still looking, and he only realized he was when the prince glanced back at him.

"They are priests," the prince murmured after a moment, in Latiumite, and either he had honestly mistaken Damianos's boorish staring for an unspoken question or he was courteously pretending that he had. "Priests and priestesses, from all the great temples here in Behdet, to grant us the blessings of each of their gods and to list the sacrifices that will be made in our honor at the temples this night. Do not worry," he added, and his tone had gone wry, the corner of his mouth slanting up suddenly. "It is not any more interesting to listen to when you can understand it. But we must be almost halfway done; there should only be a few hundred more of them."

He was speaking quietly, confidingly, those dark eyes all at once alight with—with humor. It was a joke, Damianos thought.

But he had taken far too long to think it; the moment to laugh had already passed him by, taken up with silent staring, and to laugh now—he would look slow, stupid, as though he had needed so long as that to even understand the words—

He kept his face impassive, and looked away, and tried desperately to think of something he might reasonably say instead. "Ah," was all he could manage, and he cursed himself furiously and bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. "I understand. Thank you for explaining."

When he was able to force himself to look, the prince of Kumat was already looking back—he had been watching Damianos, the shadow where a smile had been still lingering around that painted mouth, gaze utterly unreadable. "Of course," he said, almost gently.

Their hands were still clasped; Damianos's palm was far too hot against the prince's, and damp with sweat besides, but the prince had not pulled free—not even for a moment. His hand was cool, held out steadily. As if he were at ease, as if he had never been so comfortable in all his life.

And perhaps he was, Damianos thought. Perhaps he had already made arrangements to free himself from this embarrassment, this inconvenience.

He seemed graceful. Considerate. If he did have Damianos killed, it would probably be quick. That was something to be grateful for, at least.

And he was kind: he had not lied. It did not take too much longer for the great long procession to draw to a close, and then it seemed they must eat. Damianos should have paid attention, should have contemplated the rich and glorious variety of Kumati dishes set out before him; but he could see none of it, taste none of it, all his mind consumed with the unrelenting awareness of the prince of Kumat beside him.

Because if the prince did not kill him soon, then a very different trial lay before him, and he knew already it was one at which he could not hope to succeed.

Khanu did not stop smiling.

He wanted to, a little. The blessings of the gods had not gone well; he had done something wrong, been too forward or treated the matter too lightly. Been disrespectful, perhaps, which he already had some reason to think Damianos would not like, and all through the long feast afterward Damianos had barely looked at him, barely spoken. He had eaten a little, and had at least not seemed to hate the food. But he had looked like a statue, expression remote, those cool gray eyes fixed somewhere in the distance, and—

And if he truly had no liking for Khanu at all, then they were not going to enjoy their first night as husbands very much.

But even that could be recovered from in time, Khanu reminded himself, as they came at last to the gilded doorway that led into his apartments. There was certainly no avoiding it; any claim that they had not consummated matters could not be given ground to take root in. So Khanu would be pleasant, and he would be willing, and he would do what he could to ensure that Damianos did not end the night dissatisfied. And if some new mistake was made, well, that only meant that Khanu would know more than he had before, and thus be equipped to do better the next time. When he thought of it that way, it did not sound so bad at all.

So when he drew Damianos into his chambers at last, he did it invitingly, and he was still smiling. Damianos looked at him and then away and then walked in, and if he was a little stiff about it, well, this place was strange to him and he did not know it. Why should he be at ease?

"I have been told your name is Damianos," Khanu said lightly, moving to be seated upon the cushions. At least one thing had gone the way he had intended: the servants had heeded his instructions, and the low table in the main room had laid out upon it a little tray of fruit, wine, decorated with a handful of flowers. He eased himself down beside it and plucked a few seeds loose from half a pomegranate, and only then looked up. "Is that right? Or is there something else you would prefer to be called?"

"That is right," Damianos said.

He was still standing, holding himself very sternly and precisely; Khanu might almost have thought he was made of stone except that he had held Damianos's hand for so long, and knew it was not so.

Damianos had been very warm, then, almost startlingly so. And—and surely he still was, wearing all that, some sort of cloak and an enormous long robe of a garment. He was covered from neck to ankles! Utterly strange, and yet there must have been some reason for it. Was it truly so much colder in Auxentium? It would serve more than one end, if Khanu could get him to take some of it off—

"And you," Damianos added slowly. "You are Hor-Pasebakhan—Pasebakhaen—"

He stopped short and bit his lip, a slow red flush beginning to creep up the sides of his throat; and all at once it was—Khanu looked upon his rigid shoulders and grim expression, the way he had not sat or touched anything, the way he kept staring at Khanu and then away, with new eyes. Khanu's chest was flooded with cool relief, and it was not a duty or a good idea but instead a pleasure, to smile up at Damianos from the cushions.

"Yes, it is an awful mouthful," Khanu said aloud, apologetic. "You will be doing me a kindness if you are willing to call me Khanu instead."

"Khanu," Damianos repeated quietly, and suddenly it was easy to reach up and beckon him nearer, to invite him to sit and eat of the dates and figs and grapes, the cool sweet slices of melon.

And, wonder of wonders, after another long moment of silent contemplation, that lovely flush still coming gradually to full bloom across his cheeks, Damianos did it. He came close enough to kneel carefully down, and his gaze flicked back and forth once, twice, between the fruit and Khanu's face as he ate, and then he reached out with one of those long narrow hands and took a slice of melon for himself.

This much Khanu had already observed: to be watched made Damianos uncomfortable. To be spoken to and expected to respond also made Damianos uncomfortable. So he carefully did not do either. He ate, and talked idly of the weather, the season, that everyone was waiting for the floods to begin—that the harvest had been good, as Damianos could surely tell from the sweetness of the fruit, and that all the omens appeared to say this year would be even better. He allowed himself to meet Damianos's eyes only once or twice, when he had made a joke and wished to smile at Damianos to make sure his intent had been understood; and the second time Damianos even smiled back, which Khanu had not dared to expect.

And that, perhaps, was what made Khanu decide that Damianos might not take it amiss if Khanu poured them both some wine. He rose to tip the jug properly, keeping the motions of his hands and arms easy and graceful, and if the angle from which he poured happened to display his shoulders, the line of his back, to some advantage, then that was just good luck. He held out the first cup to Damianos, shining faience rimmed with gold; and Damianos hesitated only a little before reaching out to take it and sip.

Then again, it would be no surprise if under all that Graikoi cloth, he had grown thirsty.

Khanu poured a second cup for himself, and when he settled back again upon the cushions, he made sure he was closer to Damianos than he had been before. He drank, and took a slice of melon, and when he was done with it and busy licking the sweet juice from his fingers, he risked a glance and saw that Damianos was staring at his hands, his mouth, and heat flickered up his spine.

He looked away, and took another easy sip, and then he said, "Ah, and now surely I have talked enough! It would not do for you to tire of my voice on our first evening together. Tell me, then, if you would: what is this?"

He reached, and ran careful fingers along the edge of the cloak fastened at Damianos's shoulder, touch lingering upon the gleaming silver brooch that held it there.

And Damianos looked at him and did not move away. The flush had risen high into his face now, no doubt helped along by the wine, and the angle of his jaw, his chin, had softened indefinably. "It is—we call it a paludamentum, when it is long like this," he said.

"And," Khanu murmured, "this is how it comes off?" He leaned in closer, slid his fingertips beneath the edge of the brooch and freed the fastening with a little pressure, pulling it away; and the heavy embroidered cloth came loose in a rush, Damianos reaching belatedly to catch it before it could tumble into his lap and still staring at Khanu.

"Yes," he said, very low.

Khanu turned and set the brooch upon the table, and marveled distantly at the racing of his heart. He had expected that this would happen, that it would need to be done; but not that it would make him feel so—but then that was hardly anything to complain about, was it? "And this," he said aloud, reaching out again, following the seam of the next piece along the line of Damianos's shoulder. "What is this?"

"A dalmatika," Damianos said. He sounded distant, vaguely disinterested, and Khanu might have believed it if he had not been looking Damianos in the face—had not seen the wideness of his eyes, the way he licked his lips after; as though for all that a half-full cup of wine was still in his free hand, he thirsted nevertheless.

The dalmatika, too, it transpired, could be removed: unfastened, at the back just beneath the soft nape of Damianos's neck, and Damianos lowered his eyes and bent his head, let Khanu settle a hand there and exhaled shakily as Khanu's fingertips dipped below the collar of it.

And then it turned out there was another layer beneath, and Khanu could not help but laugh, low and warm, against Damianos's cheek. "All this? You stood in the avenue in full sun, wearing all this? Truly, you must be the bravest man I have ever met." He shook his head, still smiling, and ran curious hands along Damianos's waist to find the tie for the belt that held this one—and Damianos shivered against him, sucked in a quick breath as though he could not help it, and all at once Khanu realized precisely how close to each other they were.

It would be foolish to let the opportunity pass. That was what he told himself; but in truth he looked at Damianos's mouth, still wet with wine, and could not stop himself from reaching up to rub a thumb along the curve of it, from leaning in to taste it.

To him it had felt inevitable. But Damianos jerked under his touch as if in startlement, as if he had come here to Khanu's chamber for the night, now that they were husbands, and still had not expected in the least that Khanu might kiss him.

Khanu did not let go. He kept his hands soft, gentle, molded carefully to fit the arch of Damianos's back; but he did not let go, and he did not move away. He kept his mouth soft, too, and kissed Damianos slowly, and after a long uncertain moment of utter stillness, Damianos shifted a little against him and began very hesitantly to kiss him back.

And it made all the difference in the world, Khanu found. To have a husband he did not hate would have been bearable; to have a husband he was able to please and satisfy would have been a relief. But to have a husband he liked to kiss, who perhaps even liked to kiss him, too—this was so much more than it would have been wise to hope for, and yet he dared to think it might be so.

But almost the moment he thought it, Damianos went still, shoulders knotting themselves taut, and broke away from him. "There is no need for this," he said flatly, and stood.

Damianos turned, and reached absently for the belt of his chiton, the knot—it had slid to his hip, shifted by—

By Khanu's hands on him. He closed his eyes and swallowed, and did not let his own hands falter.

When the belt was loose, he let it drop; and each pin that closed the chiton, likewise, so that they clinked one at a time across the polished floor like coins.

He knew how this worked. He had—he had not done it. Who would ever have tried, with the least-loved bastard son of the basileios? As if anyone might have wished to win favors from him, when he had none to give, or would have been tempted by his utter lack of influence or power. As if he could have afforded to take the risk. The only man who had ever waited for him in his bedchamber in the grand palace had been there to ambush him and had tried to slit his throat.

But he had heard things; he had been told. Even Alexandros, Nikomedes—he had overheard them joking of it, when the airships had first launched, during all those long quiet days of travel when Damianos had had nothing to do but sit and eavesdrop and pretend he was not afraid to be sent to Kumat. That perhaps at last someone would find some use for Damianos, or at least for his ass—though of course the prince of Kumat would be better served to fuck a statue, which would no doubt be both warmer and more willing, and certainly easier to murmur sweet nothings to.

He walked through one of the doorways set further back in Khanu's chambers, and sure enough, there was a bed—or perhaps simply a couch, but it was large enough and cushioned enough that it would serve. He let the chiton fall and crumple upon the floor, and did his best to ignore the mindless heaviness of his cock; it was only because of how Khanu had touched him, Khanu's mouth against his. It would go away, probably, once they—began.

Because he knew how this worked, and it had not sounded to him like anything he was likely to enjoy.

But Khanu expected it of him and had every right to, and he had already been patient beyond Damianos's wildest expectations, taking the time to serve Damianos fruit and wine, to undress him and even kiss him. That had been kind of him; and the least Damianos could do in return was to—to try to be willing, and let him.

He knelt on the couch and waited there, ready for Khanu to push him down and make use of him. And the fruit, the wine, the feeling of Khanu's hands so carefully baring him one layer at a time; somehow, for a while, he had forgotten all that troubled him. The longer he knelt there alone, the nearer the tide of it began to rise again—would Khanu kill him now? Perhaps it had all been a trick, to lower his guard and sully his judgment; perhaps the fruit, the wine, had been drugged. Or perhaps—

Perhaps, if Khanu liked it well enough, enjoyed the having of him, he would not die at all. He had thought before that the prince of Kumat might take pity on him; and he had not known then how Khanu smiled, or how generous he would prove himself willing to be toward Damianos. It was surely possible.

But when at last Khanu's touch did come, it was not as Damianos had expected: fingertips against the back of his neck, stroking down. Gentle palms settling against his bare shoulder blades, smoothing their way carefully down the lines of muscle to either side of his spine—and they did curl then around his hips, but only to move him, to urge him carefully to turn.

Damianos's heart was in his throat. Had even this somehow been error? Had he failed to understand how it was meant to be done? "Khanu," he said, thinking at least he could apologize for his ignorance—

But Khanu did not let him. "Damianos," he said, very softly, and he let go of Damianos's hips and caught Damianos's face between his hands instead. "Not like that," and he tilted Damianos's chin up and kissed him again, only the lightest brush of his mouth.

Damianos stared at him. "Not like—that is how it is done."

Khanu seemed unmoved by this truth; he did not falter, and he did not let go. "If it would please you to do it like that," he said, "then we can certainly try it. But I think I know a way you will like better, if you will only allow me."

Allow him—

Khanu kissed him again, before Damianos could explain to him how little sense this made. Again, and again; and his hands were—were everywhere, somehow, trailing across Damianos's chest, down the lengths of his arms, circling his wrists, before sweeping back up all at once and into his hair, cradling his head at just the right angle for Khanu's tongue to press his mouth open. Khanu was leaning over Damianos now, even though of the two of them Damianos was the taller, and—and somehow Damianos had sunk back upon one elbow, and Khanu was still kissing him.

And then one of Khanu's hands was gripping Damianos by the thigh, and—and his cock's opinion of Khanu's mouth certainly had not changed. Khanu seemed to know it, and his thigh was already between Damianos's knees, exactly where Damianos both did and did not want it; Damianos shuddered against him helplessly, mindlessly, and Khanu only—only helped him, hand easing up to his hip, showing him wordlessly how best to move—ah—

"Beautiful," Khanu was murmuring against Damianos's mouth. "I knew the basileios would be sending me a husband; but I now perceive the incomparable depth of his generosity, that he would choose to send me one so lovely."

Obviously the heat in this land had driven him mad, Damianos thought dimly. But then Khanu reached for him again, gripped his cock with one hand and palmed the curve of his ass admiringly with the other, and Damianos found he could not think much of anything at all.

Khanu had thought idly that it would be lucky if his tastes and his husband's should prove similar; if his husband were easy to please, or liked fucking. Because Khanu liked it very much, and—in much the same way as being amiable and pleasant to talk to—it was something that came easily to him, that he enjoyed and had practiced and was good at.

How wonderful it was, to have been so right and so wrong all at once! He had been bewildered at first, when Damianos had stood so abruptly and walked away from him—and then a great deal of his mind had gone elsewhere, as pins began to scatter across the floor and Damianos let that last wrapped tunic of his drop and Khanu was given the whole long line of his naked back, his ass, his fine strong legs, to drink in. But—

There is no need for this. Khanu could not quite forget the words, the sound of them, the way Damianos had looked away when he had said them. And he had watched Damianos kneeling there, waiting, the distant stone-stillness of his face in profile, and had felt slow understanding begin to dawn upon him.

His husband did not like fucking. Or rather his husband did not know whether he liked fucking or not, because either he had never done it—had no one in all the Grand Basileia had eyes?—or someone had done it to him badly. His husband had not learned to have tastes, had not tried enough things to decide which ones pleased him and which did not. That is how it is done—as if there were only one way to fuck, and the same way every time.

And a vast unfamiliar feeling had begun to well up in Khanu, then, strange and fierce and warm, surging high with no heed paid to its banks, floodwater. He had not been able to do anything with it but obey it: he had touched Damianos sweetly, carefully, kissed him and pleasured him and soothed him after, and then had done it again. And when at last he had taken all the necessary care, parted Damianos's thighs and pressed himself smoothly inside, Damianos had squeezed his eyes shut, thrown his head back, and clutched Khanu's shoulders so hard he had left little bruises.

The last thought Khanu had before he fell asleep, draped across Damianos's shoulder, was that he looked forward to showing Damianos how to fuck him in return.

But when he woke in the morning, he was alone.

Alone upon the couch, at least. He lay there for a moment, eyes still closed, and then shifted and stretched, and perhaps there was still a little lingering warmth to the linen or perhaps he only wished it were so. He drew in a breath and opened his eyes, pushing himself up, and the servants would have known better than to disturb him here but there should still be water drawn for a bath waiting for him—

He blinked. Damianos was still there.

Standing, at the far end of the room. Standing and covered up again in all his Graikoi clothes, from chin to ankle; looking out from where Khanu's apartments opened onto a balcony, at the city and the river, shimmering already in the hot light of the rising sun.

And, looking at his face, Khanu could not help but feel a twinge of apprehension. It was only that it had gone so decidedly blank again. He had begun to understand that this was something Damianos did, in much the same way that when he did not know what was happening or why, smiling was what Khanu did—but he had also thought they might have left that behind, after last night.

Except clearly that had been foolish, for here Damianos was before him, expression cool and precisely composed; looking absolutely nothing at all like the furiously flushed and relentlessly intent man who had wound those lovely long legs around Khanu's waist and urged him on, tone in breathless contrast to the stately politeness of his Latiumite.

Khanu watched him carefully, and considered. Perhaps it was only habit; and habits took a little time to break. The way Damianos had looked at him, and—and this is how it is done—Damianos was still waiting for Khanu to deal with him unkindly in one way or another, and that meant Khanu must not do it.

"Well, it seems it will be a beautiful day," he said, very mild. "Well-suited to a tour of the pharaoh's gardens, if that would please you?"

"No," Damianos said, so shortly that Khanu feared he had done something after all—hurt Damianos, somewhere near the end, without knowing it; and Damianos had said nothing at the time because of course he had not, because he had expected no better. But then Damianos glanced at him, and then away, and added quietly, "That is—the journey here was long. I am tired, and last night—" He stopped, and the first flush of red at his throat made it suddenly easy to breathe again. "Last night was—not restful."

"No," Khanu agreed, though he could not quite manage to sound sorry about it. "No, I cannot say that is the word I would use."

Damianos flushed further still, staring with determination out at the balcony. But the next thing he said was, "Perhaps some other day," and coming from Damianos that was very encouraging indeed.

And, after all, he had not been shown his own apartments, which had been readied and lying empty for days waiting for him. So Khanu smiled at him and then rose, found the linen skirt he had unwrapped and discarded across the bed and tucked it round his hips again, and then summoned a servant from the hall to show Damianos the way.

"My apartments," Damianos echoed, when Khanu had explained why.

"Yes," Khanu said. "Of course. You will have your own property, I am sure some estate will be granted to you by the pharaoh. Your rooms are your own, and no one will enter them unannounced or without your permission—not even I." He paused and looked again at Damianos, more carefully, and then added, "This is—not how it is done between husbands, in the Grand Basileia?"

"Not quite," Damianos said, after a long moment; but whatever the difference was, he seemed able to reconcile himself to it, and followed the servant out.

Another was standing by the doorway waiting, and Khanu inclined his head to dismiss her, as it seemed Damianos was content with only a single guide.

But she did not go. She knelt, head bowed, and said, "Prince—the pharaoh would speak with you."

"Ah," Khanu said, "of course," and then glanced down at himself. And his hair, his hair had not been combed since—well, since before Damianos had dug his fingers into it and dragged Khanu down to kiss him. Several times. "But I will bathe first, I think."

He did it quickly; it was unwise to keep the pharaoh waiting, even for princes.

The lower audience hall was nearly empty when he reached it, but he was not surprised. If the pharaoh wished to speak to him so early in the day—it could not be a matter of state, or at least not one meant to be made public.

"Mother," he said, kneeling, and his head was lowered but he could hear when she gestured for him to stand by the clinking of her jewelry.

"Khanu," Mother said, and he risked a glance. It could be difficult to tell with Mother, but she did not look displeased, so his tardiness must not have irked her too much. She was already settled upon the great throne, the pharaoh's towering crown upon her head, and the angle of her chin suggested it weighed nothing, though Khanu had held it in his hands before and knew better. "You are pleased with the prince of the Grand Basileia?"

"We are coming to understand each other," Khanu said carefully, "and I find his company engaging. Yes, I am pleased."

Mother looked at him and then away, gaze fixed upon something Khanu thought perhaps only she could see, and murmured, "Well. That is something. Perhaps we have bought ourselves a little time after all."

Khanu blinked. The war had never come anywhere near Kem Tjeku, nor even here to Behdet. But nevertheless the perilous urgency of the situation had been impressed upon him: that the basileios's legions seemed as good as endless, that nearly all the eastern border had been taken and held by the enemy, that only the favor of the gods had prevented the utter destruction of the imperial troops at Djan'nutjer. It had been just victory enough to force a truce, and Mother had begun negotiating a treaty without delay—a treaty that Khanu had agreed to take a husband to bind, and if only he could keep that husband, the peace would hold.

Or at least that was what Khanu had thought. But—

"Bought ourselves a little time," Khanu repeated, flat. "Is that what we have done?"

Mother looked at him sharply, her mouth tightening, but Khanu could not bring himself to soften his tone or apologize. It was not even that he resented feeling mistaken, so much as—

So much as that it troubled him more deeply than he had expected, to think Mother sat on her throne coolly anticipating the inevitable failure of something that he found had already become precious to him. In retrospect, it was clear to him that Damianos anticipated that same inevitable failure, and Khanu had begun to want nothing more than to prove him wrong; to know that Mother, too, was biding her time until it all came apart pricked at Khanu's heart like thorns.

He swallowed, and lowered his eyes, and forced himself to think. "Is the basileios truly so capricious? The terms of the treaty are generous, and the final delegation is already on its way here. Why should he turn on us?"

Mother sighed a little, and Khanu made himself look up—she was reaching out one jeweled hand, and something in her face had softened. "Khanu," she said, almost gently, and Khanu took her hand and felt the worst of the tightness in his chest ease. "The basileios is no fool; he surely understands how close he came to victory at Djan'nutjer—at Hut-Zau-Ibt, at Inbu Hedj. If the gods are kind, you and your husband will live long lives and never know war again. But if not, we must be ready. And the longer we have to prepare," she added, "the better."

"Of course," Khanu said. "I will give the prince no cause to be displeased with me, Mother, and if the treaty is broken it will not be on our account. I swear it."

And he meant it. He meant it for Mother's sake, and for Kumat's, and for his own; and yet beneath all that, in the deepest mindless heart of him, there was also Damianos. Damianos, who had come so far—who was, behind that expressionless face, so uncertain, though he tried hard not to let Khanu see it. Khanu wanted to make him happy, to discover how it might be done and to learn to do it well. How to touch him and talk to him without turning him to stone again by mistake; and even, perhaps, if it were possible, to make him laugh.

The apartments Damianos had been given were very fine indeed. He had not expected it in the least—it was a matter of rank back in the Grand Basileia, and whoever stood the lower in a marriage would from that day forward have nothing they could call their own, unless they were very lucky, very stubborn, or had a family powerful enough to ensure that their displeasure mattered.

Damianos had never been lucky, and did not have the will to be stubborn, and if the basileios cared at all about Damianos's displeasure then he had always hidden it very well.

But it seemed they did things differently in Kumat. The apartments were very like Khanu's, as best Damianos could tell, with smooth walls of white stone and hangings of draping linen that rippled in the warm breezes, and a balcony that looked out across the whole vast city of Behdet. There were couches and cushions, and another low table—and even a tray of fruit with a jug of wine beside. Coincidence, surely, but Damianos saw it and felt his face flush hot.

Not that there was any part of him that was not hot. He should have looked through all the chambers thoroughly, if only to make sure there were no assassins hidden in their corners; but once he had sat down upon the couch, he could not make himself rise again.

Waking against Khanu, naked, had been—Damianos had been languid with it, half-asleep, and then all at once seized with urgency, a cold sick churning in his gut. Rising without disturbing Khanu, achieving a certain distance, retrieving his clothing and covering himself with it layer by layer, had all helped to soothe the worst of it, and by the time Khanu had woken, Damianos had almost had hold of himself again.

Almost.

But it was very, very hot. Damianos swallowed, and after a great deal of silent argument permitted himself to remove the paludamentum and set it aside. That helped a little; the dalmatika, the chiton, were not so heavy. He could not—he could not dress like Khanu, could not leave himself so bare. Even if he had known who to ask for clothing like Khanu's, what the linen wrap was called or how to put it on, he could not have done it.

Like that, the morning was tolerable. He thought surely noon would be the worst of it, but was wrong: it was in the early afternoon that he began to feel truly desperate. The wine helped a little, and the fruit helped more. But neither could free him from the pressing weight of the inescapable heat. He lay there, draped across the couch like—like Khanu, he thought, except Khanu would have relaxed this far on purpose, lithe and elegant, where Damianos was only helplessly melting.

Perhaps if he poured the rest of the wine over his head. Or—Khanu's balcony had looked out over the city, yes, but also over a broad slow river. Could Damianos find his way back? Climb out over the gilded rail, and throw himself into the water—

He heard bare feet upon stone, and thought absently that it must be a servant in the hallway. But the sound drew closer, and then there was a pause, and Damianos dragged his heavy head up off the arm of the couch and found himself looking at Khanu.

He blinked, and belatedly tried to push himself upright, ignoring the sweat that trickled down his arms.

"Khanu," he said.

Khanu did not seem impressed by this bold demonstration of exertion. "Again? All day? Damianos, I will admit to some self-interest in this matter, but I swear I am sincere: you cannot keep wearing all that. You will make yourself ill, you will—it cannot be comfortable—"

Damianos swallowed. If only it were not so difficult to think, and twice so when he had to say everything in Latiumite. "I have nothing else," he said hoarsely. "Everything I brought with me is the same."

And Khanu had looked stern, even as his mouth curved with amusement; but as Damianos spoke his expression changed to something Damianos could not quite name. "Of course," he said gently, after a moment. "I should have realized—forgive me, and permit me to make amends."

He stepped away, and there had been a servant in the hallway after all; Damianos could hear Khanu murmuring a little in Kumati. And then he came back, and Damianos had an instant's warning, a chance to draw in a breath and brace himself, before Khanu touched him.

"Here, come on," Khanu said, and eased him up, strong arm steady against Damianos's shoulder. "The—dalmatika, yes? Shall we see how much I can remember?"

His voice had dropped low, turned teasing. A prickling blaze of warmth swept Damianos's skin, just listening; just feeling Khanu's hands on him, remembering where they had been last night. And it might have made him jerk away, except that somehow it all felt of a piece with the thick heavy air, the sweltering heat: the way his heart was pounding, the way he shivered against Khanu's fingertips, that he should lie there as though helpless and let Khanu touch him.

And Khanu remembered very well indeed. He unfastened the dalmatika without difficulty and slid it free, and then the belt, the pins, the chiton. He drew Damianos up off the couch, and it was such a relief to feel the air moving against his bare skin that Damianos observed his own nakedness as if from a distance, and found himself unshamed by it.

There were many rooms, in Damianos's apartments, and Khanu led him back through one, two, and—and back here there was a bath.

"We like to bathe, in Kumat," Khanu was murmuring. "Especially on days like this." A servant was emptying one last jug of water into the far corner of the bath, which was set into the floor; and then Khanu nodded to her and she nodded back and left, and it was only them and the water.

Khanu skimmed free of that damnable linen wrap of his, and Damianos looked away—and then reminded himself that they were husbands, that they had—Khanu had let him look a great deal at everything, and there was no purpose in acting as though it were otherwise. He bit the inside of his lip and let himself glance over again, and did not turn away even though he felt his cheeks grow hot.

He liked to look at Khanu, and if Khanu did not mind, then—then perhaps it was not wrong, for all that it would have been obscene of Damianos to do it back in the Grand Basileia.

And then Khanu tilted his head back and sighed, having strode into the water until it lapped at his hips, before he turned and held out a hand to Damianos. "Come in," he said, "it is lovely," and Damianos stared at him—his outstretched hand, his wine-red mouth, those dark kohl-painted eyes—and could not disagree.

It did help, Khanu could tell that much right away. Damianos lost the strain that had been lingering around his eyes, the absent discomfort that had been twisting his mouth; there had been a harsh steady redness settled into place across his brow and cheekbones, the hollow of his throat, but as he stepped down into the water and scooped handfuls up to let it run down his arms, his chest, the color began to fade a little.

And, of course, Khanu could not complain of the opportunity to watch the drips slide along Damianos's collarbone.

It was strange: Damianos was so ready to brace himself against discomfort, so prepared to endure it, and yet he demonstrated so clearly that he had no defense whatever against pleasure; the barest sensation of it unraveled him so utterly that it was intoxicating to watch, and Khanu found himself unable to look away. All the stiffness and awkwardness melted from him, the long lines of his body softening into languor, eyes heavy-lidded. Khanu reached for him almost without meaning to, drew him deeper into the water and ran cool wet hands along his shoulder, up the soft nape of his neck, through that thick curling hair.

And Damianos let out a long slow sigh and closed his eyes, leaned into Khanu's grip, and was undone.

Khanu began to wet Damianos's hair with purpose. Set out along the edge of the bath were all the usual accoutrements, oils and perfumes and rinsing-cloths, and Khanu plucked out a golden comb from among them and worked it carefully through the end of one lock. Perhaps he had judged Damianos's clothing too harshly; his hair might be at least as much at fault, with the way it wrapped itself around Khanu's hands, warmth and sweat trapped between the curls of it. As Khanu washed and combed it properly, Damianos grew ever more pliant, stretching out through the water with his eyes still shut, only moving to tip his head whenever Khanu asked him to.

Khanu was almost sorry when he was finished. "All right," he said at last, and Damianos came up a little way out of the water—only to arch backwards, Khanu realized, to dip his head under and then draw his streaming hair up over one shoulder, and Khanu stared at the graceful curve his back made as he did it and found himself swallowing hard. "Damianos," he murmured, and slid a hand along the line of Damianos's waist. Damianos looked at him, startled; always so startled, Khanu thought, as if it surprised him anew every time Khanu wanted him, and Khanu simply could not help but kiss him then.

It seemed for a moment as though it would go exactly as it had before. Damianos went still against him, yielding to his mouth but otherwise unmoving; and then he lifted a tentative hand, smoothed his fingertips along the line of Khanu's jaw, and began to kiss back uncertainly. As if he were not sure he was doing it right, Khanu thought dimly, as if he were unpracticed—was it possible?

And then Khanu dragged his teeth lightly along Damianos's lip, and all at once it was different. Damianos's mouth parted, and he made a sound—such a sound, low in his throat, that Khanu shivered—and suddenly his hand on Khanu's face was hard, gripping desperately, and with his other arm he had caught Khanu close against him. "Khanu," he was saying, very low, "Khanu," as if perhaps he had finally realized he was permitted to like this; and Khanu slid a thigh between his and found his mouth again and kissed him harder still, more deeply, until both of them were gasping.

Finally Damianos broke away, and Khanu thought at first it was only to catch his breath, until he saw how Damianos's gaze was roving the bath.

"Khanu, I—I do not know how to—"

He was looking at the gilded lip of the bath, and at the room, and then at Khanu; Khanu's face, and then down through the water at—ah. He was not sure how they were meant to fuck in here, how he ought to position himself for it.

It should have been—endearing, perhaps. Pleasing, that he was willing, and that he had let go of this is how it is done and would instead permit Khanu to direct him. He must have liked the way Khanu had fucked him the first time well enough after all.

But instead Khanu felt some tight cold thing begin to fill his chest. As if the kissing were only how Khanu might indicate that it was time for Damianos to let his husband fuck him; as if that were all it meant.

"Khanu?"

He had been silent too long; Damianos was watching him uncertainly, still breathing hard.

Khanu bit his lip and moved nearer again, slid his arm around Damianos's shoulders and caught Damianos's face in his other hand. "No," he said. "Just this. Just this, please," and he drew Damianos down and kissed him again.

Damianos was slow to respond—and who could blame him, with Khanu's cock so clearly still intent upon its business, pressed against his thigh like this? It must have sounded ridiculous to him. Khanu shut his eyes and told himself it did not matter, even though he knew it for a lie.

Except then Damianos shifted away a little; kissed Khanu once and then again, quick and soft, as if he could not help it; and then said, "But—Khanu. I would—I would like to."

Khanu blinked. "You would—"

"Or," Damianos said quickly, "or if—" and he stopped and bit his lip and then ran a hand, deliciously and torturously slow, up Khanu's side, his chest, pausing to rub a thumb along Khanu's bare collarbone. He met Khanu's eyes again, and the look on his face was—Khanu hardly had the words for it, intent and at the same time tentative, shy but wanting very much to dare. He swallowed, and then said softly, "You are very beautiful, Khanu. When I came off the airship and I saw you, when I understood that you would be my husband, I thought: well, at least he is beautiful.

"I was still afraid, then. I did not know you at all. Perhaps you would be cruel, perhaps you would not like me, but at least you were beautiful. There was no thought in my mind that you would be so—that I would—" He stopped again and shook his head, tipped Khanu's chin abruptly upward and kissed him in a rush, and his other hand had dropped to Khanu's hip, his ass. He tugged Khanu in closer, heedless, and their cocks slid against each other in the water; and then suddenly he was gasping against Khanu's cheek, turning them, the water swirling around them, and all at once Khanu's back was against the hard cool side of the bath.

"Damianos," Khanu said, heart pounding, abruptly flushed with heat.

"I will not be good at it like you," Damianos murmured, pausing for a moment to rest their cheeks, their temples, together. "But I will get better, if—if you will allow me."

A joke. The same words Khanu had said to him before, repurposed. He was teasing, Khanu thought dazedly, even just a little; and then those long strong fingers dipped beneath the water to grip Khanu by the thighs, and he felt himself sliding up the marble, grasping belatedly for Damianos's shoulders, and could not think about anything except how lucky it was that so much oil had been lined up within reach at the edge of the bath.

Eight days.

Standing on an airship descending, ten had seemed to Damianos as though they were eternity. And yet suddenly only eight remained, and felt as though they were slipping with impossible speed through his fingers.

They did visit the pharaoh's gardens, which were lovely indeed—all manner of fruits and trees and flowers, Khanu murmuring the names of them to Damianos in Kumati and laughing when Damianos did his best to repeat them, head tipped back and face upturned in the sunlight. He told Damianos where they had come from, too: that this was from Da'amot, where it grew much taller and the flowers were the size of a man's face, and this here had been a gift from the ga'na of Akar himself—along with so much gold for the pharaoh that there had not been enough smiths to work it all, and a great deal of fine salt from the west. The monkeys calling to each other from the trees had been gifts, too, and the tame antelope picking its way through the far end of the garden.

And Khanu gave him clothes, showed him how to wrap the skirt—and if he threw the long end over his shoulder instead of tucking it in again the way he was meant to, Damianos discovered, it did not feel so very different from wearing a cloak. Except that his chest was bare underneath; but it was hard to mind that when it meant he could feel the breezes so much better. And—and Khanu's hands, too, when Khanu reached to draw his attention. That was—not unpleasant.

Khanu had told him that soon the floods would come, and when there were six days left, it became truth. They were far along the river, Khanu explained, and that was why it had taken so long to reach them; the river had already been rising a little, and reports had come steadily to the pharaoh of the flooding upstream, to the south, working its way toward Behdet.

And then it arrived, and Damianos woke and looked out from Khanu's rooms and saw that the bank of the river was no longer in the same place. The palace had been built on high ground, and Damianos now understood why: on the near bank, he could see that the river was running high and that was all, but on the far bank where there had been reeds now there was only water, water, spilling out, glimmering bright with morning sun.

It was beautiful, and the breeze that crossed it already felt cooler to Damianos, all that fresh water coming down to them at last from the mountains in the south. It gave the air the feeling of a festival—or maybe that was just Khanu, laughing and clapping his hands together, and hurrying Damianos along with a broad smile.

They took a royal barge out onto the water, that day, and Khanu must have been planning as much because he had brought gifts for Damianos, too: circlets for his hair, bronze bands for his arms and his ankles, bracelets dripping with lapis and enormous draping necklaces that covered half Damianos's chest, in the lavish Kumati style. And of course Khanu wanted to put them all on him at once, half the time praising him with a low warm voice that made his cheeks hot and the other half laughing at him while he did his best to glare. It was too much, too heavy, for Damianos's taste—Khanu could have managed well enough, he thought sulkily, with both the confidence and the shoulders to not let himself be outweighed by all this, but it did not really suit Damianos.

Which did not matter as much as the fact that Khanu seemed to like to look at him wearing it. So he made faces and complained of it, but he did not take it off.

They stayed on the river all day; it was the most comfortable Damianos had ever been on one of these long hot afternoons, to be out on the water in the shelter of the barge's woven shade. Khanu taught him how to play some Kumati game, zenet-hib, and they ate meat and fruit and soft round bread as the sun dropped lower. Damianos fell asleep without meaning to, and woke slowly to a sensation that he was gradually able to identify as—as Khanu's fingertips, moving gently through his hair.

And if he had been told it was a dream just then—all of it, everything, from the moment he had stepped out of the airship and into the Kumati sun—he might have believed it. This was nothing he had expected, nothing he had even understood it might be possible to hope for; to think he had believed even for a moment that Kumat must be a dangerous and barren land, that Khanu would take one look at him and have him killed, when it was all so clearly the rankest nonsense.

He turned his head and met Khanu's eyes, and suddenly it felt imperative that Khanu should understand this, so he pushed himself up on his elbows and did his best to explain.

"It is a wonder you boarded that airship at all," Khanu said when he was done, with a smile, and Damianos shook his head because that meant he must not have said it right.

"No, it was—I had no choice," Damianos said, trying again, "and it would not have mattered. If you had hated me, or refused me, or sent me out to die in the desert, it was—it would only have been as much as I expected. You see? It would have been the same as ever; it was the way I lived."

Khanu was looking at him more thoughtfully now, brows drawn down, the closest to a frown Damianos had ever seen him. He said nothing, only touched Damianos's face, his jaw, with the backs of his fingers; and Damianos caught his hand and then leaned in further upon his other elbow.

"I was told that this land was a desert," Damianos said slowly, feeling his way along the words, because he was not even sure what it was he wished to say and yet he knew it must be said. "But your river is so generous, Khanu, that it overflows its banks; and in all my life I have never drunk so deeply."

And Khanu was so close, then, and looking at Damianos so intently that it was all Damianos could do to kiss him—to drink a little more, Damianos thought dimly, from this river he had crossed such a vast and terrible desert to find.

Khanu had learned many things about Damianos, in what even he could allow was a very short time. There was the obvious, of course: the way he held himself when he was unhappy, that awful blank thing he sometimes did with his face; the way his hair felt against Khanu's fingers, that he flushed so prettily, that he was stubborn and liked to wear too many clothes and would stretch out all his long limbs every which way, if he had the room to do it.

And yet Khanu found it was not enough; there was so much more he did not know, or which he was only just beginning to understand.

He had been amused, a little, when Damianos had first tried to explain to him everything that Damianos had been told of Kumat, and the picture Damianos had constructed for himself out of it. But in truth he hardly knew more about the Grand Basileia. That it was cold, or at least that men covered themselves much more—so much that it was startling to see a person bare, Khanu had begun to think. That things were done differently there. That people were uncomfortable there, unhappy all the time, and thought nothing of it; or maybe that was just Damianos. That husbands, wives, were different—and he had known already that the basileios was not like Mother, had only one wife instead of three of them and also two husbands, and that not being born of this lone essential wife meant Damianos could be called "bastard".

He waited until the evening, until they were seated together by the balcony, watching the sun sink and all its riotous colors reflected in the widening river. Damianos was still relaxed and content, leaning against Khanu's shoulder and toying idly with one of Khanu's hands; and in the end it was half to distract himself from the tantalizing sensation of Damianos's fingertips skimming across his knuckles, that Khanu said, "Will you tell me something of this—Basileia?"

The motion of Damianos's fingers slowed. But he did not pull away or sit up, or run off to put on all his Graikoi clothes, and after a moment he said quietly, "What is it you wish to know?"

"No, I—anything," Khanu said. "Anything you like. I know what your soldiers wear in battle very well, and where your borders lie. And," he added with a smile, "as I have said, that for all the flaws he may possess, your basileios has been generous beyond comprehension to me."

Damianos huffed a breath through his nose, shaking his head, and aimed a wry little glance at Khanu, but did not argue. "And perhaps to me," he allowed, and the slant of his mouth looked suddenly satisfied. "It is the last thing he would ever have intended, and yet in its way it is true." He paused and looked out, and Khanu suspected suddenly that he was seeing a city before him and it was not Behdet. "I did love Auxentium, I think. It is a beautiful place. I was happy there when I was a child, before—before it became known that I was a son of the basileios."

And Khanu thought perhaps he understood a little better now. "And the other children of the basileios," he said carefully, "they were not pleased."

Damianos looked away, and his hand had tightened around Khanu's. "It was—you must see, it is the way of things there. It was not that they were unkind. It is all zenet-hib, in the court of the basileios; every day, every moment. I was a gambit, like the way you cheated in that third game—"

"I was not cheating," Khanu said primly, but he did remember the moment Damianos had meant. "You were—held in reserve to threaten them?"

"If they did not do what he wanted," Damianos said quietly, "he would talk of giving me all their lands and titles, and making me his heir. He used me to get rid of people, sometimes; he had a man killed for some slight he claimed he had perceived toward me," and Khanu thought with a jolt of the Graikoi servant, the hushed way she had spoken of a misused title and an execution. "There are many spies in the court of the basileios, spies and killers. It was always safest to be alone."

"The man who died in your chambers," Khanu said suddenly. "He was—he was there to kill you."

Damianos stiffened, and Khanu cursed himself silently for an idiot. "Someone told you."

"I asked," Khanu admitted. "I wished to know all I could about you."

Damianos was tense against him, but had not moved away, and Khanu touched his face, ran careful fingers through his hair. "You must have assassins in Kumat," Damianos said at last.

"Oh, yes," Khanu agreed. "But—not like that. There are tasters in the kitchens, and brass crocodiles to patrol all the palace grounds, and of course Mother has her bodyguards. But I am the sixth son of seven, and the ninth child of eleven, and I have lived nearly all my life on a small estate outside the capital. It will be my sister Nimāt-Nilufer who is crowned, when Mother is gone, and all Kumat knows it. No one has ever been waiting in my apartments to strangle me."

And at this, Damianos turned in Khanu's arms and met Khanu's eyes again, and he looked almost amused. "This is a strange land indeed," he said. "Even to be chosen for this, to be sent here, was dangerous—" and then he stopped, and his face grew grave and still. "There are many powerful nobles in Auxentium who did not favor forging this peace between our empires, Khanu, and who do not think of Kumat with kindness in their hearts. There are many who hope that it will come to nothing, and that our legions will march again within the year."

Khanu looked at him and longed to be able to tell Damianos it was nothing: that he had no more to fear, that they were safe and that all would be well. But instead he thought of Mother, gazing into the distance, saying we have bought ourselves a little time, and he stayed helplessly silent.

"I will not let anything happen to you," Damianos said, very low. He was suddenly leaning in close, so that their cheeks, their temples, brushed each other, and a strand of gold thread that had been wound through Khanu's hair caught in one of Damianos's curls; and then he touched Khanu's face and said it again—"I will not let anything happen to you. I know you did not want this any more than I—"

"Damianos—"

"—that this was not anything you might have chosen if you could," Damianos went on, inexorable. "But you were kind to me anyway, that first day, even though you did not need to be. And I swear to you that you will not suffer for it."

Khanu closed his eyes. "Damianos," he repeated, and there were a dozen things he wished to say, that if it had been kindness it had been of the most calculating and deliberate sort and hardly deserved the name; that he had not even known, then, that Damianos was in fact precisely what he wanted, and that perhaps—perhaps he even—

But it all caught, words tangled up together in his tight throat, and then Damianos turned a little and kissed him, so he could not have said it even if he had worked out how.

There were five days left; and then four, and then three; and then two. Damianos could never quite forget it, the sun far too speedy in its passing for his taste, and each evening he found himself gripping Khanu to him more tightly, kissing Khanu more desperately, straining to pick out the lines of Khanu's sleeping face in the dark and fix them firmly in his memory. He did not even know what it was that he feared—it was only that it felt inevitable, that such a thing could not last.

But whoever paid the price for it, he would make sure it was not Khanu.

The day of the delegation's arrival, there were no trips to the gardens; there was no lounging on the barge on the river. It was familiar except in all the ways it was not, to return to the grand avenue and see the great marble mooring stones of the airship docks gleaming white under the sun—because this time he had been in the river palace of Behdet all morning, he had bathed and had his hair brushed and oiled and was wearing only his chiton, his chiton and the armbands Khanu had given him, and he was standing in the avenue with his shoulder pressed to Khanu's and watching the airships approach.

Strange, to think ten days ago it had been just like this for Khanu, standing in the sun waiting for Damianos. Damianos felt almost as though some—some shade of himself must be up there, the himself he had been ten days ago, silently terrified; and as though if he only knew how, he might reach across the time between, touch himself on the shoulder and murmur, I know you do not know this yet, but you have nothing to fear.

And then the airships landed, and the first of them, the largest, opened wide its bay doors. Damianos looked, and saw who had stepped out, and something that was almost a sort of calm filled him, cool as river water.

Because he understood, now, what was going to happen and what was to be done about it. There were officials he recognized, yes, and diplomats, court functionaries, just as might have been expected.

But among them, in the same plain armor as the rest of their escort, was Alexandros.

Alexandros, who was Philippos's man if he was anyone's; and Philippos had never cared to be at peace, and was disinterested in acquiring a taste for it. He had not had Alexandros kill Damianos ten days ago, because he could not have afforded to be so obvious about it. And now—

Now the death that would benefit him most was no longer Damianos's.

Damianos was not rash. He greeted the delegation as courteously as could be asked, at Khanu's side, and together with their escort and Khanu's, a grand procession was made along the avenue to return them all to the palace. He allowed his gaze to pass over Alexandros, and did not pretend not to recognize him—what good would it have done? But he looked away again dismissively afterward, chin high, as though he had only been reminded how little he liked Alexandros and was not inclined to think further on it.

The members of the delegation were brought before the pharaoh and presented to her, and she accepted their formal greetings and compliments in a steady clear voice that seemed to fill the whole audience hall effortlessly. She had been at the feast, Damianos recalled, at the highest table; he had paid her no attention at the time, too frantic over Khanu beside him to spare a thought for anything else. It was commonly held in Auxentium that the throne room of the basileios, and the basileios himself in his imperial finery, were beyond compare. But looking at the pharaoh now, her towering crown, the wide jeweled collar at her throat and the lapis and emeralds and garnets dripping from her ears and wrists and fingers, surveying the whole delegation with such cool regard—Damianos found he no longer believed it.

And of course there would be another feast in the evening. The delegation would be permitted to rest and refresh themselves first, and Damianos found himself grateful for it: even a little while longer with Khanu was a gift he would not refuse.

But he was distracted, he could not help it, and of course Khanu noticed. He was circumspect about it, diplomatic, because he was Khanu; and it was only after the third time he had had to call Damianos's name more than once that Damianos looked up to find Khanu watching him carefully, mouth flat.

"I apologize," Damianos said at once, before Khanu could begin to try to press him, and chose a half-truth: "I do not mean to be so occupied—it is strange to see my countryfolk again, when I am and am not one of them, when I have begun in so many ways to leave them behind me."

Khanu's face softened, and Damianos was pricked by sudden guilt and had to look away.

But of course to Khanu that must only have looked like ambivalence, discomfort. He reached out and slid a soothing hand along the line of Damianos's back, kissed Damianos's temple and cheek; and then, when Damianos let his eyes fall shut, let himself turn into Khanu's touch the way he wished to, Khanu brought their mouths together and kissed him longer still.

The feast itself was lovely. This time, Damianos made an effort to express some appreciation for it all—entire oxen had been roasted, and fish and fowl too, along with all the many Kumati breads and fruits to which Damianos was growing accustomed, with honeyed glazes and fine spices to hand, and of course there were bright lotus flowers scattered all across the long tables.

And there was also a great deal of wine. Damianos drank his first cup steadily, and half of the next; and then he picked it up and pressed it to his mouth three or four more times without letting any liquid pass his lips, and then refilled it. In this way, he let another cupful seem to have been drunk when in truth he had had no more than a sip. The fourth cup, he took a little of and then knocked with his arm, careless, so that it fell and spilled, and he flushed and apologized clumsily and filled it yet again.

When he looked up, Khanu was watching him. Watching him and smiling, but there was something in the level steadiness of that gaze that made Damianos think he must have noticed—what? That Damianos liked wine? He had known that already. Damianos made himself breathe in, and smiled at Khanu a little; and the first cup must have been enough to make his face flush a bit, because it had never taken much.

And Khanu said nothing. Damianos put a hand over his on the table, and picked up his cup, and drank-but-did-not-drink a little more.

He stayed with Khanu all through the evening, and when at last they pried themselves from their seats and left the hall, Damianos made sure to stumble, clinging to Khanu's arm with his eyes half-closed. "I stink of wine," he observed, not quietly, and then he leaned in and kissed Khanu clumsily.

"Damianos," Khanu said, trying to steady him, and there was an undertone in his voice that was almost wary.

For a moment, Damianos wanted to apologize to him again; but it would be entirely the wrong thing to do, and it was—no matter what came of this, surely Khanu would understand in the end, whether Damianos was there to explain it to him or not. "I am—I would like to come to your apartments," he said instead, still a little too loud, "if that would be agreeable. But I think I had better bathe first."

"Yes," Khanu said slowly, "perhaps that would be wise," and at least Damianos could get away with kissing him one more time before they parted at the side of the hall.

He wandered to his own apartments with the loose and unsteady stride of a drunken man, even though it was not likely he was being watched; Alexandros would not have had much time to learn where Damianos's chambers were, and would have had no reason to make the effort. Damianos waited there a little while before summoning a servant from the corridor. "The prince," he said to her, in the same too-loud manner with which he had spoken to Khanu. "I must see him. Will you go and tell him that, and bring him here?"

"Of course," she murmured, kneeling, and then rose and went out.

And how far was it to Khanu's chambers from here? Damianos pictured the route for himself, tried to pace it in his mind as though he were a servant walking it. Little chance she would be interrupted along the way; everyone who was not at the feast was either asleep, by this time, or else otherwise occupied. And Khanu—

Khanu would come, if she told him Damianos had asked for him. Damianos closed his eyes, rubbing absently at his brow. Even if only to ask Damianos why he had been acting so strangely, to look for answers; but he would come.

And Damianos must be gone well before he arrived. The chiton was taken off, and he wrapped one of the skirts Khanu had given him around his waist instead. He risked a glance out into the hallway, which was dim with evening, illuminated in pools here and there by the lamps set out along the walls. No movement caught his eye, and at last he slipped out and hurried away.

He and Khanu had walked the palace's halls and corridors many times over, by now, and Damianos knew them well enough for this. Khanu would go to Damianos's rooms by the most direct route—why shouldn't he? So Damianos went by a way that circled a little, a way Khanu and the servant would not go, and when he reached Khanu's apartments, they were dark and empty, only a single lamp left with its wick burning low, the soft scent of the oil rising.

Nothing like his chambers in the grand palace in Auxentium, but Damianos still knew what to do: he crouched low in the shadows and went still, waiting for his eyes to adjust themselves to this dimness, and searched every line and corner of the room with his gaze.

Nothing. Perhaps he had been quick enough after all.

He wore the linen skirt, his chest was bare; his hair curled more than Khanu's, but was thick enough and dark enough to serve, especially in such feeble light as this. He moved quickly to the couch and spread himself out upon it, turning his face carefully into the cushions and relaxing his body thoroughly in the manner of a man asleep, and he made his breathing full and slow and closed his eyes.

And in the end it became clear he had chosen his moment well. He was trapped there motionless, listening to his own heart pound, for what felt like barely any time at all before he heard something else.

Only the barest soft sound—but here in the river palace of the pharaoh of Kumat, whose servants all went barefoot, even the lightest scuff of a shoe-sole said a great deal to the ears of Damianos.

Alexandros would not have lasted so long in Philippos's service if he were incompetent. He was quick, quiet; it was only because Damianos had been waiting for him, listening so very hard, that he had been given away. He did not stray, he did not speak. He came to the edge of the couch almost silently, faster than Damianos had been expecting, and Damianos had only an instant's warning—the whisper of all those Graikoi clothes Alexandros was wearing, layers brushing as Alexandros struck—to tense his body and twist where he lay, and catch Alexandros's wrist against his own.

It was not enough to stop Alexandros, of course. The angle, Alexandros above and stabbing downward with all his strength, and Damianos prone; Damianos was strong, but not that strong, and the knife slid into him with a wet soft sound, the pain bright and immediate.

But it had not gone into his throat, and it had not gone into his heart—Alexandros could not correct for the way Damianos's blow had driven his hand sideways.

"You," Alexandros said, harsh with surprise, jerking the knife free; and Damianos smiled up at him through the darkness and twisted, ignoring the spike of pain in his side, and kicked Alexandros in the stomach.

"Yes," he said, as Alexandros stumbled back, and Alexandros snarled and flipped the knife around in his hand.

"I have always hoped to be the one to kill you," he said, and before Damianos could do more than push himself up off the couch, Alexandros was leaping for him anew.

Khanu was not sure what he meant to say to Damianos.

It was not that Damianos had done anything wrong, or even particularly suspicious—only that something in the way he had been holding himself, the way he had gone for the wine again and again, had put Khanu in mind of that expressionless look he'd once worn so often, the way he had stripped himself down and then waited for Khanu to fuck him like it was a trial to be endured. Certainly it had been nothing like the unselfconscious way Damianos surrendered himself to the pleasures he most enjoyed; but what could make drinking wine at a feast into a duty?

Khanu could not make sense of it. Perhaps it was just as Damianos had told him, earlier. Perhaps he had wished to drink his own mind to stillness, troubled by the presence of those to whom he was still an ill-loved bastard prince. Perhaps that was all.

Either way, Khanu would have the opportunity to find out. He had been surprised when the servant had come to tell him Damianos would see him—had Damianos not meant to join him in Khanu's own rooms instead? But perhaps Khanu had misunderstood him, or he had changed his mind. It did not matter. Khanu had thanked the woman and dismissed her and gone on his own, and there was only one more long corridor left before he would reach Damianos's door.

He was halfway along its length when there was a sudden blare in his ears. The great alarm, he realized—it functioned along the same principles as the throats of the pharaoh's gilded elephants, air forced through a mechanism. One of them stood at each of the palace's four corners, and another set along the surrounding wall. And they were not sounded without cause.

He stopped short. Only a few more strides would have him within Damianos's apartments—where, he was suddenly sure, he would not find Damianos.

He turned on his heel and ran, heart in his throat, abruptly certain where he must go. He could hear the shouts of palace guards, the measured pace of their feet as they began to move through the palace, searching; but they did not know what he knew.

Retracing his own steps at a run, he cursed every one that he had taken, in what he should have realized would be entirely the wrong direction—and when he reached his own apartments again at last, it was just as he had feared.

The lamp had been tipped; not broken, but the oil had all caught alight, and by it Khanu could see all too well the body on the floor, blood spilling dark over stone, the glint of a blade—

And Damianos, slumped beside.

"Damianos," Khanu said, and ran to him and knelt. He was bleeding, he was—he had been stabbed, and deeply, one bloody hand pressed over the wound; but he looked up when Khanu spoke, and those lovely gray eyes were clear.

"Khanu," he said, and as Khanu bent low beside him he caught Khanu's arm.

"A physician, I will—let me call for one—"

"Khanu, he was here for me," Damianos said, very steadily and firmly.

"I do not care what he was here for, if he stabbed you in attempting it," Khanu snapped, and Damianos's mouth twitched in something that was almost a smile, of all things—!

"He was here for me," Damianos said again. "He is sworn to one of my brothers, who has never liked me, and must have hoped to see me dead at last, alone in a foreign land. Do you understand?"

Khanu stared at him, bewildered, wanting nothing more than to say no—no, he understood none of this at all, and especially not why Damianos must say this to him so insistently, when the man was dead and the guards were on their way and Damianos must have a physician. What did it matter?

And then he thought of the wine. Of Damianos, so quiet and distracted for all the afternoon; of the way he had said there are many who hope our legions will march again within the year, and I will not let anything happen to you. He had sent that servant to fetch Khanu to his apartments, and at the same time he himself had come to Khanu's, and it could not have been in error. If he had not done it—

If he had not done it, then this man, whoever he was, would have come here with a knife in hand and found Khanu. Khanu looked over at the corpse, and yes, that was Graikoi clothing. Hidden among the delegation, or among their escorts. And if Khanu had been killed—surely Mother would have given Damianos to one of his brothers or sisters? Unless—

Khanu had assumed, thoughtless, that any decent assassin would try to be quick and clean, to leave no evidence. The timing would have been suspicious, but then there had been a feast, a celebration; the palace had been crowded tonight. It might plausibly have been done by anyone. But: zenet-hib, Damianos had said, it was all zenet-hib, every moment.

If Khanu had been killed, Mother would have done what she could to keep the treaty with the basileios intact. Unless he had been killed by someone from the delegation, and she had known it—because Mother loved Kumat but she also loved Khanu, and in any case she could not have let such a thing take place and go unanswered. And whatever she would have done, imprisoned the delegation or even executed them, sent their heads to the basileios on gold plates—it would have been more than enough excuse to go straightaway to war again.

Damianos's hand tightened on Khanu's arm. "He was here for me," Damianos repeated, low. "Khanu—"

"Yes," Khanu made himself say belatedly. "Yes, I—I understand. He was here for you," and Damianos let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes. "I understand, and when the guards come I will tell them, and the servants will hear, and it will be known."

He put a hand carefully over Damianos's where it was pressed over Damianos's wound, and helped Damianos up and onto the couch, and by then a servant had passed and seen and come hurrying in, and Khanu sent him away again for Mother's physician and then turned back to Damianos.

Who was looking up at him, in a wry fond way. "I will be all right, you know," Damianos said. "I have been stabbed before. This time it was not even very bad."

Khanu laughed a little, helpless, and shook his head. "You are the bravest man I have ever met," he said, "and also the stupidest. You realize I will never let you out of my sight again," he added, leaning down to press his forehead to Damianos's, and he could feel Damianos's sigh nearly as well as he could hear it.

"I do not think I would mind that," Damianos admitted, and then he tipped his face up enough to catch Khanu's mouth with his own; and Khanu held him close and kissed back, chest tight and heart full, overflowing with it like a river.