Chapter 8
Damiskos had set off more or less at random, anger stiffening his gait and lending him a burst of speed. They were headed in the direction of the ruined huts that Nione had shown him the previous day.
Behind them, the students were marshalling in an impromptu procession.
“Torches!” someone cried. “Torches for the wedding party!”
“Eya! Eya!”
“That,” said Damiskos, “uh, didn’t go entirely as planned.”
“I daresay it didn’t.” Varazda’s voice was toneless.
Damiskos withdrew his arm to unsling Varazda’s coat from his shoulder and offer it. Varazda took it and draped it around his bare shoulders.
“It’s just that I was annoyed,” Damiskos tried to explain. “They keep assuming I share their wretched preoccupation with ‘Phemian purity,’ which is a load of balls, and I’m sick of it.
