“He could’ve killed you,” Tatian said.
“He wasn’t trying to,” Warreven answered. “They, their leader, was trying to make a point about herms. Or about me, that I was one. Cutting me was actually incidental.”
Tatian shuddered, unable to suppress the vivid image, began to rub the soap into 3er hair, cautiously working up a lather. “What did the mosstaas say?”
“Æ?” Warreven’s good eye blinked.
“You didn’t call the mosstaas?”
Ȝe made a noise that might have been laughter. “They wouldn’t’ve come. Tendlathe’s paid them off.”
“Bastards.” Tatian looked away from the bruised face and body, the massive bandage covering 3er injured eye, the thinner strip running from shoulder to hip, made himself concentrate on the mass of hair under his hands. Even tangled as it was, it felt like silk, heavy and so smooth that the strands seemed to catch on the calloused skin of his fingers. He winced, thinking of the pressure on Warreven’s neck, and carefully freed himself. Warreven sighed, suddenly and deeply, and let 3imself relax, so that 3er head lay heavy in Tatian’s hands.
“That feels better.” Ȝer voice was slurring—a combination of the broom and whatever else they’d given 3im at the hospital, Tatian thought, and probably a very good thing.
“Good,” he said aloud, and took 3er shoulders, guiding 3im back under the stream of water again. Warreven let 3imself be moved, the visible eye closed now. Tatian was reminded again of Kaysa, she of the long mahogany braid, and the long, graceful limbs. Not that 3e was particularly feminine, anymore than 3e was masculine—3er body beneath the water drew his eyes, long legs, long, clearly defined muscles, cock and the swell of the cleft scrotum behind it. Ȝe had forgotten to hunch 3er shoulder, and 3er breasts, herm’s breasts, small and definite against the bony ribs, were fully exposed. A perfect herm’s body, Tatian thought, and felt himself flushing, embarrassment as much as desire, well aware that he was responding as much to the memories of Kaysa as to Warreven’s presence. The broom sang in his blood, Warreven lay passive in his hands, and he made himself look away, feeling depressingly adolescent, concentrated on rinsing the last of the soap from 3er hair until his erection subsided.
“All done,” he said, and Warreven nodded and sat up slowly. Tatian stepped back, but stayed close enough to steady 3im as 3e climbed carefully out of the tub. He handed 3er a towel before 3e could ask and looked away while 3e dried 3imself, moving as slowly as an ancient.
“Do you want me to comb out your hair?” he asked, and Warreven wound the towel awkwardly around 3er waist, wincing as the coarse fabric touched bruises and the bandaged cut.
“I’d appreciate it,” 3e said, and lowered 3imself carefully onto a padded stool. “I don’t think I could manage on my own.”
A wooden comb lay on the edge of the tub. Tatian picked it up and began to work out the snarls. Kaysa had taught him how to do this—her hair had been one of the pleasures of the relationship—and he worked slowly, careful not to put too much pressure on Warreven’s neck. The bandage hid most of 3er expression, but when Tatian looked more closely, 3er good eye was closed again, and he thought 3e might be falling asleep under his hands.
“That’s finished,” he said at last.
Warreven sighed, straightened slowly, and turned to face him, drawing the towel up over 3er chest. “Thanks. God and the spirits, I hurt.”
“Did you get anything from the hospital for it?”
“No.” Warreven moved 3er shoulders experimentally, grimaced, and stopped. “I have deepdream, and doutfire; one of those’ll be fine.”
“Where are they, in the kitchen?”
“Yes.” Warreven roused 3imself with an effort. “The blue cabinet.”
“Go to bed,” Tatian said. “I’ll get them.”
“What about you?” The towel slipped; Warreven started to reach for it and let it slide back down to 3er waist, held it there. “You’re welcome to stay.”
“If you don’t mind,” Tatian said, “I’d be glad of a bed. It’s almost morning, and I’d like some sleep.”
Warreven started to nod, checked 3imself instantly. “There are quilts in the chest—the one under the media center—and the couch isn’t too bad. I’ll—”
“I’ll find them,” Tatian said, startled by the rush of protectiveness—more of the broom, he thought. “Go to bed, Warreven.”
Ȝe gave him a wincing smile and turned away, dropping the towel on the floor behind 3im. Tatian picked it up, folded it automatically, and set it back on the rack, then went into the kitchen to find the drugs.
There were several boxes and canisters, jumbled into the cabinet with pottery dishes and half-empty boxes of food, and he pried open lids until he found a jar with dried doutfire. He shook out four of the thin cylinders of bark—paper-thin, fragile in his clumsy fingers—and brought them into the bedroom. Warreven was already in bed, the top quilt drawn up to 3er shoulders, but 3e roused 3imself enough to chew and swallow the doutfire. Tatian hesitated, wanting to do more, not knowing what more he could do, then switched out the light and went back into the main room.
The sky was pale beyond the windows, and he studied the controls of the media center for a moment before he found the time display. If there was a remote, it was nowhere in sight; he fiddled with the rudimentary keypad instead until he’d located the local communications system. The smaller screen lit, offering him options, and he scrolled through the unfamiliar menus until he found the way into the secondary system that most off-worlders used. Then he punched in Derebought’s codes—audio only, no visual at this hour—and waited while the call went through. The screen flashed white, and Mats’ voice said, “Yeah?”
He sounded both sleepy and annoyed; Tatian allowed himself a smile, knowing the cameras were off, and said, “It’s Mhyre Tatian. Sorry to wake you, but it’s important.”
“Hang on,” Mats said, but he already sounded more awake. “All right. What’s up?”
“I’m not going to be in today at all, and maybe not tomorrow,” Tatian said. “Warreven’s been attacked by the ghost ranas, and I’m at 3er place—3e called me from the hospital, asked me to get an off-world doctor for 3im and the herm 3e was with.”
“God and the spirits.” That was Derebought’s voice, quickly smothered.
Mats said, “Derry’s right, boss, we’ve already been warned off local politics.”
“I know.” Tatian bit back his own annoyance. “That’s why I’m calling you. I’m on leave, as of yesterday. Fix it in the records, will you? I don’t have access from here. You don’t know where I am, or what my plans were. You don’t know anything about me playing politics, or anything about me and Warreven.”
“All right,” Mats said, and Derebought broke in.
“Do you want me to let Serram Masani know what’s happened?”
Tatian hesitated, then nodded, forgetting for an instant that the screen was blank both ways. “Yes,” he said, “but as discreetly as you can. Don’t use the port lines unless you have to.”
“All right.” He heard Derebought’s intake of breath as she considered her next words. “Are you sure this is…” Her voice trailed off again as she failed to find suitably diplomatic phrasing.
Tatian finished it for her. “Smart? No. That’s why I’m clearing out of day-to-day business for now. I want NAPD to have deniability.”
“You think it’s that bad?” Derebought asked, and he could almost hear the shake of her head. “Sorry, you wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t.”
“No.” Tatian took a deep breath.
“How can we contact you?” Mats asked. “This number?”