Varazda flipped the two swords to hold the hilts together, the blades pointing in opposite directions, and spun them as if they were one fearsome, twin-bladed weapon. He leaned gracefully back, long hair swinging free, as he flipped them up above his head. Then he separated them and swept them out to the sides as he dropped to one knee, the skirt of his coat settling around him. His audience—the ones he was aware of—applauded.
He got to his feet, smiling a kind of modest, genuine smile that Damiskos had not seen on his face before. Neither he nor the women had noticed Damiskos.
“Finished already?” said the older women, obviously disappointed, as Varazda picked up his swords and tucked them under one arm.
“It is getting late—I must go dress and attend my master.”
The women made regretfu
