Captive Prince: Volume One (15 page)

In Damen’s experience, being taken out of his rooms at Laurent’s request did not end well. His three excursions had comprised the ring, the gardens and the baths, with a subsequent trip to the flogging post.

His back was by now mostly healed, but that was of no consequence; the next time Laurent struck out, it would not be directly at him.

Damen had very little power, but there was a crack that ran right down the middle of this court. If Laurent would not be persuaded, Damen must turn his attention to the Regent’s faction.

Out of habit, he observed the security outside of his room. They were on the second floor of the palace, and the passage they walked along had a number of windows fretted by grilles, looking out on an uninviting sheer drop. They also passed a number of armed men, all wearing the livery of the Prince’s Guard. Here were the guards that had been absent from the pet residences. A surprising number of men: they could not all be here for his benefit. Did Laurent keep this kind of security about him all the time?

They passed through a pair of ornate bronze doors and Damen realised that he had been brought into Laurent’s own chambers.

Damen’s eyes raked the interior derisively. These rooms were everything he would have expected of a princeling pampered lavishly, extravagantly, beyond reason. Decoration overran everything. The tiles were patterned, the walls intricately carved. The vantage was enchanting; this second-floor chamber had a loggia of semi-circular arches that hung above gardens. Through an archway the bedchamber could be seen. The bed was swathed in sumptuous curtains, a panoply of luxurious embellishment and carved wood. All that was missing was a rumpled, perfumed trail of clothing strewn across the floor, and a pet lounging on one of the silk-draped surfaces.

There was no such evidence of habitation. In fact, amid the opulence, there were only a few personal effects. Close to Damen was a reclining couch and a book, fanned open, revealing illuminated pages and scrollwork glinting with gold leaf. The leash Damen had worn in the gardens also lay on the couch, as though tossed there casually.

Laurent emerged from the bedchamber. He had not yet closed the delicate band that collared his shirt, and white laces trailed, exposing the hollow of his throat. When he saw that Damen had arrived, he paused beneath the archway.

‘Leave us,’ said Laurent.

He spoke to the handlers who had brought Damen to this chamber. They freed Damen from his restraints and departed.

‘Stand up,’ said Laurent.

Damen stood. He was taller than Laurent, and physically stronger, and wearing no restraints at all. And they were alone together, as they had been last night, as they had been in the baths. But something was different. He realised that at some point he had begun to think of being alone in a room with Laurent as dangerous.

Laurent detached himself from the doorway. As he drew close to Damen, his expression soured, his blue eyes curdled with distaste.

Laurent said, ‘There is no bargain between us. A prince does not make deals with slaves and insects. Your promises are worth less to me than dirt. Do you understand me?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Damen.

Laurent was staring at him coldly. ‘Torveld of Patras may be persuaded to request that the slaves go with him to Bazal, as part of the trade deal being negotiated with my uncle.’

Damen felt his brow furrow. This information did not make sense.

‘If Torveld insists strongly enough, I think my uncle will agree to some sort of—loan—or, more accurately, a permanent arrangement couched as a loan, so that it will not offend our allies in Akielos. It’s my understanding that Patran sensibilities regarding the treatment of slaves are similar to your own.’

‘They are.’

‘I have spent the afternoon seeding the idea with Torveld. The deal will be finalised tonight. You will accompany me to the entertainments. It is my uncle’s custom to conduct business in relaxed surroundings,’ said Laurent.

‘But—’ said Damen.

‘But?’ Icily.

Damen rethought that particular approach.

He turned over the information he’d just been given. Re-examined it. Turned it over again.

‘What changed your mind?’ Damen said, carefully.

Laurent didn’t answer him, just looked at him with hostility. ‘Don’t speak, unless you’re asked a question. Don’t contradict anything that I say. These are the rules. Break them and I will joyfully leave your countrymen to rot.’ And then: ‘Bring me the leash.’

The staff to which the leash was affixed had the heavy weight of pure gold. The fragile chain was intact; it had either been repaired or replaced. Damen picked it up, not very quickly.

‘I’m not sure that I believe anything that you’ve just told me,’ Damen said.

‘Do you have a choice?’

‘No.’

Laurent had closed the lacings on his shirt, and the picture he now presented was immaculate.

‘Well? Put it on,’ he said, with a touch of impatience.

The leash, he meant.

Torveld of Patras was in the palace to negotiate a trade agreement. That much was true. Damen had heard the news from several sources. He remembered Vannes discussing the Patran delegation, several nights ago, in the garden. Patras had a culture similar to that of Akielos; that, also, was true. Perhaps the rest followed. If a consignment of slaves was on offer, Torveld would conceivably bargain for them, knowing their value. It might be true.

Perhaps. Maybe. Might.

Laurent was not feigning any change of heart, or warmth of feeling. His wall of contempt was firmly in place—was even more evident than usual, as though this act of benevolence was forcing all his considerable dislike to the surface. Damen found that the necessity of winning Laurent over to his cause was giving way to the sobering realisation that he had put the fate of the others into the hands of a volatile, malicious man he did not trust and could not predict, nor understand.

He felt no new rush of warmth for Laurent. He was not inclined to believe that cruelty delivered with one hand was redeemed by a caress from the other, if that’s even what this was. Nor was he naive enough to think that Laurent was acting out of any altruistic impulse. Laurent was doing this for some twisty reason of his own.

If it was true.

When the leash was affixed, Laurent took hold of the handler’s staff and said, ‘You’re my pet. You outrank others. You do not need to submit to the orders of anyone except myself and my uncle. If you blurt out tonight’s plans to him, he will be very, very annoyed with me, which you might enjoy, but you won’t like my riposte. It’s your choice, of course.’

Of course.

Laurent paused on the threshold. ‘One more thing.’

They were standing beneath a high arch, which threw shadows on Laurent’s face and made it difficult to read. It was a moment before he spoke.

‘Be careful of Nicaise, the pet you saw with Councillor Audin. You rejected him in the ring, and that is not a slight he is likely to forget.’

‘Councillor Audin’s pet? The child?’ Incredulous.

‘Don’t underestimate him because of his age. He has experienced things many adults have not, and his mind is no longer that of a child. Though even a child may learn how to manipulate an adult. And you’re mistaken: Councillor Audin is not his master. Nicaise is dangerous.’

‘He’s thirteen years old,’ said Damen, and found himself subjected to Laurent’s long-lidded gaze. ‘Is there anyone at this court who isn’t my enemy?’

‘Not if I can help it,’ Laurent said.

‘So he’s tame,’ said Estienne, and reached out tentatively, as though to pat a wild animal.

It was a question of which part of the animal he was patting. Damen knocked his hand away. Estienne gave a yelp and snatched his hand back, nursing it against his chest.

‘Not that tame,’ said Laurent.

He didn’t reprimand Damen. He didn’t seem particularly displeased with barbaric behaviour, as long as it was directed outward. Like a man who enjoys owning an animal who will rake others with its claws but eat peacefully from his own hand, he was giving his pet a great deal of license.

As a result, courtiers kept one eye on Damen, giving him a wide berth. Laurent used that to his advantage, using the propensity of courtiers to fall back in reaction to Damen’s presence as a means of extricating himself smoothly from conversation.

The third time this happened Damen said, ‘Shall I make a face at the ones you don’t like, or is it enough to just look like a barbarian?’

‘Shut up,’ said Laurent, calmly.

It was said that the Empress of Vask kept two leopards tied up by her throne. Damen tried not to feel like one of them.

Before the negotiations there were to be entertainments, before the entertainments a banquet, before the banquet this reception. There were not as many pets as there had been at the ring, but Damen did see one or two familiar faces. Across the room he saw a flash of red hair, found a pair of emerald eyes; Ancel uncurled himself from his master’s arm, pressed fingers to his lips, and blew Damen a kiss.

The Patran delegation, when they arrived, were obvious from the cut of their clothes. Laurent greeted Torveld like an equal, which he was. Almost.

In negotiations of consequence, it was common to send a man of high birth to act as ambassador. Torveld was Prince Torveld, younger brother to King Torgeir of Patras, though in his case ‘younger’ was relative. Torveld was a handsome man in his forties, close to twice Damen’s age. He had a neatly trimmed brown beard in the Patran style, brown hair still largely untouched by grey.

Relations between Akielos and Patras were friendly and extensive, but Prince Torveld and Prince Damianos had never met. Torveld had spent most of the last eighteen years on Patras’s northern border, in dealings with the Vaskian Empire. Damen knew of him by reputation. Everyone knew of him. He had distinguished himself in the campaigns to the north when Damen was still in swaddling. He was fifth in line to inherit, after the King’s litter of three sons and a daughter.

Torveld’s brown eyes grew markedly warm and appreciative when he looked at Laurent.

‘Torveld,’ said Laurent. ‘I’m afraid my uncle is delayed. While we wait, I thought you could join my pet and I for some air on the balcony.’

Damen thought Laurent’s uncle probably wasn’t delayed. He reconciled himself to an evening of listening to Laurent lying a great deal, about everything.

‘I’d be delighted,’ said Torveld, with real pleasure, and gestured for one of his own servants to accompany them also. They strolled together in a small party, Laurent and Torveld in front, and Damen and the servant following a few steps behind.

The balcony had a bench for courtiers to recline on and a shadowed alcove for servants to discreetly retire to. Damen, his proportions suited to battle, was not built to be discreet, but if Laurent insisted on dragging him about by the neck he could suffer the intrusion, or find a balcony with a bigger alcove. It was a warm night, and the air was perfumed with all the beauty of the gardens. Conversation unfolded easily between the two men, who surely had nothing at all in common. But of course, Laurent was good at talking.

‘What news from Akielos?’ Laurent asked Torveld, at one point. ‘You were there recently.’

Damen looked at him, startled. Laurent being Laurent, the topic was not an accident. From anyone else, it would have been kindness. He couldn’t help his pulse quickening at his first word of home.

‘Have you ever visited the capital, at Ios?’ asked Torveld. Laurent shook his head. ‘It’s very beautiful. A white palace, built high on the cliffs to command the ocean. On a clear day you can look out and see Isthima across the water. But it was a dark place when I arrived. The whole of the city was still in mourning for the old King and his son. That terrible business. And there were some factional disputes among the kyroi. The beginnings of conflict, dissent.’

‘Theomedes united them,’ said Laurent. ‘You don’t think Kastor can do the same?’

‘Perhaps. His legitimacy is an issue. One or two of the kyroi have royal blood running through their veins. Not as much as Kastor, but gotten inside of a marriage bed. That situation breeds discontent.’

‘What impression did you have of Kastor?’ asked Laurent.

‘A complicated man,’ said Torveld. ‘Born in the shadow of a throne. But he does have many of the qualities needed in a king. Strength. Judiciousness. Ambition.’

‘Is ambition needed in a king?’ said Laurent. ‘Or is it simply needed to become king?’

After a pause: ‘I heard those rumours too. That the death of Damianos was no accident. But I don’t credit them. I saw Kastor in his grief. It was genuine. It cannot have been an easy time for him. To have lost so much and gained so much, all in the space of a moment.’

‘That is the fate of all princes destined for a throne,’ said Laurent.

Torveld favoured Laurent with another of those long, admiring looks that were starting to come with grating frequency. Damen frowned. Laurent was a nest of scorpions in the body of one person. Torveld looked at him and saw a buttercup.

To hear that Akielos was weakened was as painful as Laurent must have meant it to be. Damen’s mind tangled with the thought of factional disputes and dissent. If there was unrest, it would come first from the northern provinces. Sicyon, maybe. And Delpha.