Captive Prince: Volume One (11 page)

Laurent was indeed good at talking. He accepted sympathy gracefully. He put his position rationally. He stopped the flow of talk when it became dangerously critical of his uncle. He said nothing that could be taken as an open slight on the Regency. Yet no one who talked to him could have any doubt that his uncle was behaving at best misguidedly and at worst treasonously.

But even to Damen, who had no great knowledge of the politics of this court, it was significant that all five councillors had left with the Regent. It was a sign of the Regent’s comparative power: he had the full backing of the Council. Laurent’s faction, left here griping in the audience chamber, did not like it. They did not have to like it. They could do nothing about it.

This, then, was the time for Laurent to do his best to shore up support, not disappear off somewhere for a private tête-à-tête with his slave.

And yet, despite all of this, they were leaving the audience chamber, and moving through a series of interior courtyards large enough to contain trees, geometric greenery, fountains and winding paths. Across the courtyard, glimpses of the continuing revelry could be seen; the trees moved and the lights from the entertainment across the way winked, brightly.

They were not alone. Following at a discreet distance were two guards for Laurent’s protection. As always. And the courtyard itself was not empty. More than once, they passed couples promenading on the paths, and once, Damen saw a pet and courtier twining around one another on a bench, sensuously kissing.

Laurent led them to an arbour, vine-bowered. Beside it was a fountain and a long pool tangled with lilies. Laurent tied Damen’s leash to the metalwork of the bower, as he might tie a horse’s lead to a post. He had to stand very close to Damen in order to do it, but gave no sign that he was bothered by the proximity. The tether was nothing more than an insult. Not being a dumb animal, Damen was perfectly capable of untying the leash. What kept him in place was not the thin golden chain casually looped around the metal, it was the liveried guard, and the presence of half the court, and a great many men besides that, between him and freedom.

Laurent moved off a few steps. Damen saw him lift a hand to the back of his own neck, as if to release tension. Saw him do nothing for a moment but stand and be quiet and breathe the cool air scented with night flowers. It occurred to Damen for the first time that Laurent might have his own reasons for wanting to escape the attention of the court.

The tension rose, surfacing, as Laurent turned back to him.

‘You don’t have a very good sense of self-preservation, do you, little pet? Bleating to my uncle was a mistake,’ said Laurent.

‘Because you got your hand slapped?’ said Damen.

‘Because it’s going to anger all those guards you’ve taken so much trouble cultivating,’ said Laurent. ‘They tend to dislike servants who place self-interest above loyalty.’

Expecting a direct assault, he was unprepared for one that came at him obliquely, sideways. He set his jaw, let his gaze rake up and down Laurent’s form.

‘You can’t touch your uncle, so you lash out where you can. I’m not afraid of you. If there’s something you’re going to do to me, do it.’

‘You poor, misguided animal,’ said Laurent. ‘Whatever made you think I came here for you?’

Damen blinked.

‘Then again,’ said Laurent, ‘maybe I do need you for one thing.’ He wound the thin chain once around his own wrist, and then, with a sharp jerk, he snapped it. The two ends slithered away from his wrist and dropped, dangling. Laurent took a step backwards. Damen looked at the broken chain in confusion.

‘Your Highness,’ said a voice.

Laurent said, ‘Councillor Herode.’

‘Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,’ began Herode. Then he saw Damen and hesitated. ‘Forgive me. I . . . assumed you would come alone.’

‘Forgive you?’ said Laurent.

A silence opened up around Laurent’s words. In it, their meaning changed. Herode began, ‘I—’ Then he looked at Damen, and his expression grew alarmed. ‘Is this safe? He’s broken his leash. Guard!’

There was the shrill sound of a sword drawn from a sheath. Two swords. The guards pushed their way into the arbour and interposed themselves between Damen and Herode. Of course.

‘You’ve made your point,’ Herode said, with a wary eye on Damen. ‘I hadn’t seen the slave’s rebellious side. You seemed to have him under control in the ring. And the slaves gifted to your uncle are so obedient. If you attend the entertainments later, you’ll see that for yourself.’

‘I’ve seen them,’ said Laurent. There was a little silence.

‘You know how close I was to your father,’ said Herode. ‘Since his death, I have given my loyalty unswervingly to your uncle. I’m concerned that in this case it may have led me to make an error of judgement—’

‘If you’re concerned that my memory for wrongs against me is longer than ten months,’ said Laurent, ‘there’s no need for anxiety. I am sure you can persuade me you were genuinely mistaken.’

Herode said, ‘Perhaps we can take a turn in the garden. The slave can avail himself of the garden seat and rest his injuries.’

‘How thoughtful of you, Councillor,’ said Laurent. He turned to Damen and said in a melting voice, ‘Your back must hurt terribly.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Damen.

‘Kneel on the ground, then,’ Laurent said.

A hard grip on his shoulder forced him down; as soon as Damen’s knees hit the ground, a sword was held to his throat to dissuade him from rising. Herode and Laurent were disappearing away together, just one more couple wandering the perfumed garden paths.

The revelry across the way began to spill out into the garden, and, steadily, its population increased, and lanterns were hung, and servants began to wander about with refreshments. The place where Damen knelt remained reasonably out of the way, but occasionally courtiers passed him, and remarked on him: look, there is the Prince’s barbarian slave.

Frustration curled in him like a lash. He was once again tied up. The guard was less nonchalant about restraining him than Laurent. He was chained to the metal bower by his collar, and this time it was a real chain, not something he could snap.

Little pet
, thought Damen with disgust. From Herode’s fraught exchange with Laurent he picked the only salient piece of information.

Somewhere inside, not far away, were the other Akielon slaves.

Damen’s mind returned to them. His concern for their wellbeing persisted, but their proximity raised perturbing questions. What was the provenance of these slaves? Were they palace slaves, trained by Adrastus, and brought as Damen had been directly from the capital? Held in solitary confinement aboard the ship, Damen had not yet seen the slaves, nor had they seen him. But if they were palace slaves, handpicked from the best of those who served royalty in Akielos, there was a chance that they would recognise him.

In the unfolding quiet of the courtyard, he heard the soft chime of small bells.

Chained up in an obscure part of the garden away from the courtly entertainments, it was just sheer bad luck that one of the slaves was brought to him.

On the end of a leash, led by a Veretian pet. The slave wore a petite version of Damen’s gold collar and wrist-cuffs. The pet was the source of the bells. He was belled like a cat, at his throat. He was wearing a great deal of paint. And he was familiar.

It was Councillor Audin’s pet, the child.

Damen cheerlessly supposed that to those susceptible to little boys, this pet probably had charms in abundance. Under the paint, he had a child’s fine clear skin. If his features had been possessed by a girl of the same age, they would have promised, given half a dozen years, a superlatively beautiful young woman. A learned grace disguised, for the most part, the limitations of his undersized child’s limbs. Like Damen, he had precious stones woven into his hair, though in his case they were seed pearls, glinting like stars in a tumble of brown curls. His best feature was a pair of amazing blue eyes, unmatched by any Damen had ever seen, except for the ones he had recently been staring into.

The boy’s pretty bow lips formed the shape of a kiss, and he spat, right into Damen’s face.

‘My name is Nicaise,’ he said. ‘You’re not important enough to refuse me. Your master had all his land and money taken away. Even if he hadn’t, you’re just a slave. The Regent sent me to find the Prince. Where is he?’

‘He went back to the audience chamber,’ Damen said. To say that he was taken aback by Nicaise was an understatement. The lie just came out.

Nicaise stared at him. Then he tugged brutally on the slave’s leash. The slave was wrenched forward and almost overbalanced, like a colt on over-long legs. ‘I’m not going to drag you around all night. Wait here for me.’ Nicaise tossed the slave’s leash onto the ground and turned on his heel, bells chiming.

Damen lifted his hand to his wet face. Instantly, the slave was on his knees beside him, and a soft hand was on his wrist, drawing it back.

‘Please, let me. You will smudge the paint.’

The slave was looking right at him. Damen saw no recognition in his face. The slave simply lifted the hem of his tunic and used it to dab gently at Damen’s cheek.

Damen relaxed. He thought, a little ruefully, that it was probably arrogant of him to have assumed that the slave would know him. He supposed that he looked rather unlike a prince, in gold shackles and gold paint, shackled to an arbour in the middle of a Veretian garden.

He also felt sure that this slave was not from the palace in Akielos; Damen would have noticed him. The slave’s colouring was eye-catching. His skin was fair and his curling light brown hair was burnished with gold. He was exactly the type that Damen could have drawn down onto the sheets and spent a very pleasant couple of hours enjoying.

The slave’s careful fingers touched his face. Damen felt a moment of obscure guilt for having sent Nicaise off on a wild goose chase. But he was also glad for this unexpected moment alone with a slave from his homeland.

‘What’s your name?’ said Damen, softly.

‘Erasmus.’

‘Erasmus, it’s good to talk to another Akielon.’

He meant it. The contrast between this demure, lovely slave and the spiteful Nicaise made him crave the straightforward simplicity of home. At the same time, Damen felt a throb of concern for the Akielon slaves. Their sweet-natured obedience was hardly a blueprint for survival in this court. Damen guessed Erasmus to be about eighteen or nineteen, yet he would be eaten alive by thirteen-year-old Nicaise. Let alone Laurent.

‘There was a slave who was kept drugged and bound aboard the ship,’ Erasmus said, tentatively. From the first, he had spoken Akielon. ‘They said he was given to the Prince.’

Damen nodded slowly, answering the unspoken question. As well as tousled light brown curls, Erasmus had a pair of the most hopelessly artless hazel eyes Damen had ever seen.

‘What a charming picture,’ said a woman’s voice.

Jerking back from Damen, Erasmus instantly prostrated himself, pressing his forehead to the ground. Damen stayed where he was. Kneeling and shackled was quite submissive enough.

The woman who had spoken was Vannes. She was strolling the garden paths with two noblemen. One of the men had a pet with him, a red-haired youth who Damen also faintly recognised from the ring.

‘Don’t stop on our account,’ said the redhead, tartly.

Damen glanced sideways at Erasmus, who hadn’t moved. It was unlikely that Erasmus could speak Veretian.

His master laughed: ‘Another minute or two and we might have caught them kissing.’

‘I wonder if the Prince could be persuaded to have his slave entertain with the others?’ said Vannes. ‘It’s not often you get to see a really powerful male perform. It was a shame to pull him out of the ring before he had a chance to mount anyone.’

‘I’m not sure I’d care to watch him, after what we saw tonight.’ The master of the redhead spoke.

‘I think it’s more exciting now that we know he’s really dangerous,’ said the redheaded pet.

‘It’s a shame his back is ruined, but the front is very nice,’ said Vannes. ‘We saw more of it at the ring, of course. As for the danger . . . Councillor Guion suggested that he wasn’t trained to perform as a pleasure slave. But training isn’t everything. He might have natural talent.’

Damen was silent. To react to these courtiers would be madness; the only possible course of action was to stay quiet and hope they would grow bored and drift off; and that was what Damen was determinedly doing, when the one thing happened that was guaranteed to make any situation spectacularly worse.

‘Natural talent?’ said Laurent.

He strolled into the gathering. The courtiers all bobbed respectfully, and Vannes explained the subject under consideration. Laurent turned to Damen.

‘Well?’ Laurent said. ‘Can you couple adequately, or do you just kill things?’

Damen thought that given the choice between the lash and a conversation with Laurent, he might actually choose the lash.

‘He’s not very talkative,’ remarked Vannes.

‘It comes and goes,’ said Laurent.

‘I’d happily perform with him.’ It was the pet with the red hair. Ostensibly, he spoke to his master, but the words carried.