Chapter 8

Gawain simply couldn't fully take in what he was seeing. Tristan: the loner who killed as easily as breathing, whose eyes missed nothing and whose ears heard everything. The man who was so paranoid and skilled that all were slightly wary around him… this man had bought a slave? Well that was hardly surprising – Sarmatians kept slaves too – but here? Knights were allowed to each own one personal slave (perks of a big salary and bigger military status) but Tristan was the last person Gawain thought would take advantage of this boon. The man was so private no one even knew what he did when he wasn't on duty!

And now he owned a waifish youth with long black hair and eyes like a winter sky; they missed nothing, and the small, high-boned face seemed eerie – it was a girl's face. Was Tristan disguising his personal whore as a boy to throw them off the scent? The slave was certainly short enough, barely taller than Vanora. But the utterly flat chest, the narrow hips and long limbs… it was an odd little figure, mystifying.

Either way, they could trust Tristan to pick a slave as disconcerting as himself (albeit in a different way). The lad didn't seem particularly afraid of Bors either, which earned him credit in Gawain's eyes. But it was when he spoke that Gawain knew that this boy was going to be more trouble than he was worth: "Don't have one,"

Silky smooth, melodic, faintly accented. It was utterly beguiling, even to Gawain's ears. How had this lad not been snapped up to be some perverted old Roman's plaything? Why had Tristan wanted him?

Bors, as usual completely unfazed by such subtleties, merely shook the boy by the shoulder and said in a slightly less than bellowing voice to Tristan: "Well Tris, think of one!"

Gawain knew that the assistant near the door was looking more and more annoyed and would eventually find someone to throw them out – but they still had plenty of time yet.

Tristan's reaction was perhaps the most fascinating of all. He froze temporarily and considered the slave for a long time. Eventually, he said one word: "Kation,"

It was a Sarmatian name – unsurprising, but also… unusual. For Tristan to give the boy a name from his own culture meant something – Gawain couldn't figure it out. But the scout never did anything without a reason; Gawain swore to himself that he'd untangle this riddle.

"Kation…" Bors repeated. The naming had taken him by surprise too. He turned back to the youth, who was staring at Tristan with a strange intensity, those sky-clear eyes glowing with some unnameable emotion. "What did your mother call you?" he asked. The slave glanced at him, and pulled himself out of Bors' grip for a second time.

"I don't remember her," he said. His voice was so… weird. Galahad nudged Gawain's arm, but didn't say anything. Gawain glanced at him quickly. His young friend flicked his eyes to Tristan for a split second before going back to watching the interplay between Bors and the slave.

Gawain slid his gaze to the scout. The man looked… wary. This was suspicious enough to prompt Gawain to walk over to his comrade. "So Tristan," he said, sitting on the edge of the cot. "Mind telling us why you bought this… boy?" and the doubt with which he said that word made Tristan look at him sharply.

Ah ha…

The scout had nowhere to run and looked so damn tired that Gawain almost regretted interrogating him. But he had to know… had to be sure that Tristan wasn't going to do anything monstrous…

"What do you mean?" the scout asked wearily.

"He has the face of a girl. Those delicate brows, the smooth voice, the narrow shoulders… I wonder… " Gawain asked, trailing off suggestively. Tristan had that unreadable look on his face, but it was carefully controlled. It was also all the fuel needed for Gawain's suspicions to strengthen.

"Kation's not what he seems," Gawain insisted after a very pregnant pause. Tristan picked at the woollen blanket, not meeting Gawain's eyes. "He's not like other boys – and Arthur is the kind to notice."

Tristan tensed at that but still said nothing. Gawain resisted the urge to groan in frustration. "Don't be stubborn," he said, his voice lowered so that Galahad couldn't hear his words. "I know something's wrong, and I'll find out the truth – whether it's from you or Kation doesn't bother me."

Tristan looked at him then, a clear warning in his eyes. "Stay away from him," he growled. Gawain tilted his head.

"Then you'd better start talking," he challenged, "I won't wait forever."

While they were talking, Kation had been listening to Bors' bullshit with gravely polite attentiveness; but he'd also kept an eye on his master. Seeing the tension between him and Gawain, he openly turned his attention to Tristan, prompting Bors to stare at the two as well.

Gawain smiled and stood, clapping Bors on the shoulder and nodding to Galahad. He had noticed that the younger knight seemed particularly suspicious of the slave and hadn't joined in, preferring to hang back awkwardly and watch. The newly named Kation limped to his master and stood close, arms folded in front of him and with just a hint of challenge in his eyes as he stared at the departing knights.

Facing up to three knights in a matter of minutes… Gawain nearly chuckled. This kid would bear watching. He leaned over and patted Tristan's shin, "We'll leave you to rest. After all, why give Tris' setbacks when we can have him recover and then make him go on patrol instead of us?" he said, turning to throw the question at Galahad and Bors.

Bors nodded enthusiastically, "Right! I hate going out there in the rain! Van' always says I smell like a wet dog when I get back from patrol. Don't know why she thinks that," he rubbed his shaven head, releasing a toxic combination of stale leather and terrible body odour from his armpit.

"Just turn your head a little to the left and you'll have your answer," Galahad laughed and led the way out of the infirmary.

Gawain paused in the doorway and turned back to look at the strange silent pair: the slave was still standing his ground, unmoving. He was almost glaring at Gawain, while the cant of his head suggested that he was measuring the knight up. Gawain felt his gut clench: something was so far off the mark that it had missed the target altogether. And to compound it all, Tristan was complicit in the mystery. What had provoked this? The unspoken trust between the two was unnerving since no one had been able to approach Tristan for months when they first arrived in Britannia. What was so special about this spirited slave with the chilling eyes?

Had he just answered his own question?

He felt his jaw tighten and he glanced at Tristan, who looked amused. Clearly the slave and his master were in on some wonderful secret that Gawain wasn't invited to join. He sneered momentarily and then left – resolving to have a bath and try to forget those cold, cold eyes.