by S. U. Pacat
How was it possible that all of the fantastical events of last night had affected no change in his circumstances at all?
The idea of being trapped inside this room for several months—
Perhaps it was natural, trapped like a fly in this filigree web, that his mind should fixate on Laurent, with his spider’s brain under the yellow hair. Last night, Damen had not given much thought to Laurent or the plot that centred on him: his mind had been filled with thoughts of escape; he’d had neither the time nor the inclination to muse on Veretian treachery.
But now he was alone with nothing to think about except the strange, bloody attack.
And so, as the sun climbed its way from morning to afternoon, he found himself remembering the three men, with their Veretian voices and Akielon knives. These three men attacked the slave, Laurent had said. Laurent needed no reason to lie, but why deny he’d been attacked at all? It helped the perpetrator.
He remembered Laurent’s calculating cut with the knife, and the struggle after, Laurent’s body hard with resistance, the breath in his chest drug-quickened. There were easier ways to kill a prince.
Three men, armed with weapons from Sicyon. The Akielon gift-slave brought in to be blamed. The drug, the planned rape. And Laurent, winnowing around talking. And lying. And killing.
He understood.
He felt, momentarily, as though the floor was sliding out from under him, the world rearranging itself.
It was simple and obvious. It was something he should have seen straight away—would have seen, if he had not been blinded by the need to escape. It lay before him, dark and consummate in design and intent.
There was no way out of this room, so he had to wait, and wait, and wait, until the next gorgeous platter. He gave all his thanks that the silent servant was accompanied by Radel.
He said, ‘I have to talk to the Prince.’
The last time he had made a request like this Laurent had appeared promptly, in court clothes, with brushed hair. Damen expected no less now, in these urgent circumstances, and he scrambled up from the pallet when the door was pushed open no more than an hour later.
Into his room, alone, dismissing the guards, came the Regent.
He entered with the slow strolling walk of a lord touring his lands. This time there were no councillors, no retinue, no ceremony. The overwhelming impression remained one of authority; the Regent had an imposing physical presence, and his shoulders wore the robes well. The silver shot through his dark hair and beard spoke to his experience. He was not Laurent, lounging idly on the throne. He was to his nephew as a warhorse to a show pony.
Damen made his obeisance.
‘Your Highness,’ he said.
‘You’re a man. Stand,’ said the Regent.
He did so, slowly.
‘You must be relieved that my nephew is leaving,’ said the Regent. It was not a good question to answer.
‘I’m sure he’ll do honour to his country,’ said Damen.
The Regent gazed at him. ‘You are quite diplomatic. For a soldier.’
Damen took a steadying breath. This high, the air was thin.
‘Your Highness,’ he said, submissively.
‘I wait for a real answer,’ said the Regent.
Damen made the attempt. ‘I’m—glad he does his duty. A prince should learn how to lead men before he becomes a king.’
The Regent considered his words. ‘My nephew is a difficult case. Most men would think that leadership was a quality that ran naturally in the blood of a king’s heir—not something that must be forced on him against his own flawed nature. But then, Laurent was born a second son.’
So were you, came the thought, unbidden. The Regent made Laurent feel like a warm up. He was not here for an exchange of views, whatever it might look like. For a man of his status to visit a slave at all was unlikely and bizarre.
‘Why don’t you tell me what happened last night?’ said the Regent.
‘Your Highness. You already have the story from your nephew.’
‘Perhaps, in the confusion, there was something my nephew misunderstood, or left out,’ said the Regent. ‘He is not used to fighting, as you are.’
Damen was silent, though the urge to speak dragged at him like an undertow.
‘I know your first instinct is to honesty,’ said the Regent. ‘You will not be penalised for it.’
‘I—’ said Damen.
There was movement in the doorway. Damen shifted his gaze, almost with a guilty start.
‘Uncle,’ said Laurent.
‘Laurent,’ said the Regent.
‘Did you have some business with my slave?’
‘Not business,’ said the Regent. ‘Curiosity.’
Laurent came forward with the twinned deliberation and disinterest of a cat. It was impossible to tell how much he had overheard.
‘He isn’t my lover,’ said Laurent.
‘I’m not curious about what you do in bed,’ said the Regent. ‘I’m curious about what happened in your rooms last night.’
‘Hadn’t we settled that?’
‘Half settled. We never heard the slave’s account.’
‘Surely,’ said Laurent, ‘you wouldn’t value a slave’s word over mine?’
‘Wouldn’t I?’ said the Regent. ‘Even your tone of surprise is feigned. Your brother could be trusted. Your word is a tarnished rag. But you can rest easy. The slave’s account matches yours, as far as it goes.’
‘Did you think there was some deeper plot here?’ said Laurent.
They gazed at each other. The Regent said, ‘I only hope your time on the border will improve and focus you. I hope you will learn what you need as the leader of other men. I don’t know what else I can teach you.’
‘You keep offering me all these chances to improve myself,’ said Laurent. ‘Teach me how to thank you.’
Damen expected the Regent to reply, but he was silent, his eyes on his nephew.
Laurent said, ‘Will you come to see me off tomorrow, uncle?’
‘Laurent. You know I will,’ said the Regent.
‘Well?’ said Laurent when his uncle had left. The steady blue gaze was on him. ‘If you ask me to rescue a kitten from a tree, I’m going to refuse.’
‘I don’t have a petition. I just wanted to speak with you.’
‘Fond goodbyes?’
‘I know what happened last night,’ said Damen.
Laurent said, ‘Do you?’
It was the tone he used with his uncle. Damen drew a breath.
‘So do you. You killed the survivor before he could be interrogated,’ said Damen.
Laurent moved to the window, and sat, arranging himself on the sill. His pose was side-saddle. The fingers of one hand slid idly into the ornate grillework that covered the window. The last of the day’s sunlight lay on his hair and face like bright coins, shaped by the fretted openings. He gazed at Damen.
‘Yes,’ Laurent said.
‘You killed him because you didn’t want him interrogated. You knew what he was going to say. You didn’t want him to say it.’
After a moment: ‘Yes.’
‘I assume he was to say that Kastor sent him.’
The scapegoat was Akielon, and the weapons were Akielon: every detail had been carefully arranged to throw the blame southward. For verisimilitude, the assassins would also have been told they were agents of Akielos.
‘Better for Kastor to have friend uncle on the throne than nephew prince who hates Akielos,’ said Laurent.
‘Except that Kastor can’t afford war now, not with dissent among the kyroi. If he wanted you dead, he’d do it secretly. He’d never send assassins like this: crudely armed with Akielon weapons, announcing their provenance. Kastor didn’t hire those men.’
‘No,’ agreed Laurent.
He’d known, but to hear it was another matter, and the confirmation sent a shock down into him. In the warmth of the late afternoon, he felt himself turn cold.
‘Then . . . war
was the aim,’ he said. ‘A confession like that—if your uncle heard it, he would have no choice but to retaliate. If you’d been found—’ Raped by an Akielon slave. Murdered by Akielon knives. ‘Someone is trying to provoke war between Akielos and Vere.’
‘You have to admire it,’ said Laurent, in a detached voice. ‘It’s the perfect time to attack Akielos. Kastor is dealing with factional problems from the kyroi. Damianos, who turned the tide at Marlas, is dead. And the whole of Vere would rise up against a bastard, especially one who had cut down a Veretian prince. If only my murder weren’t the catalyst, it’s a scheme I would wholeheartedly support.’
Damen stared at him, his stomach churning in distaste at the casual words. He ignored them; ignored the final honeyed tones of regret.
Because Laurent was right: the timing was perfect. Pit a galvanised Vere against a fractured, feuding Akielos, and his country would fall. Worse, it was the northern provinces that were unstable—Delpha, Sicyon—the very provinces that lay closest to the Veretian border. Akielos was a powerful military force when the kyroi were united under a single king, but if that bond dissolved, it was no more than a collection of city states with provincial armies, none of which could stand against a Veretian attack.
In his mind’s eye he saw the future: the long train of Veretian troops moving southward, the provinces of Akielos falling one by one. He saw Veretian soldiers streaming through the palace at Ios, Veretian voices echoing in his father’s hall.
He looked at Laurent.
‘Your welfare hinges on this plot. If only for your own sake, don’t you want it stopped?’
‘I have stopped it,’ said Laurent. The astringent blue gaze was resting on him.
‘I meant,’ said Damen, ‘can’t you put aside whatever family quarrel you have, and speak honestly to your uncle?’
He felt Laurent’s surprise, transmitting itself through the air. Outside, the light was just beginning to turn orange. The fair face did not change.
‘I don’t think that would be wise,’ said Laurent.
‘Why not?’
‘Because,’ said Laurent, ‘my uncle is the murderer.’
CHAPTER 13
‘BUT—IF THAT’S true—’ Damen began.
It was true; it was somehow not even a surprise, more like a truth that had grown for some time on the edge of his awareness, now brought into sharp relief. He thought: two thrones for the price of a few hire swords and a dose of pleasure drug. He remembered Nicaise, appearing in the hallway with his huge blue eyes, wearing bed clothes.
‘You can’t go to Delfeur,’ Damen said. ‘It’s a death trap.’
The moment he said it, he understood that Laurent had always known this. He recalled Laurent avoiding border duty again, and again, and again.
‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t take tactical advice from a slave, scant moments after he is dragged back from a failed attempt to escape.’
‘You can’t go. It isn’t just a matter of staying alive. You forfeit the throne as soon as you set foot outside the city. Your uncle will hold the capital. He has already—’ Casting his mind back over the Regent’s actions, Damen saw the series of moves that had led to this, each one played out precisely, and far in advance. ‘He has already cut off your supply lines through Varenne and Marche. You don’t have finances or troops.’
The words were an unfolding realisation. It was clear now why Laurent had worked to exonerate his slave and obfuscate the attack. If war was declared, Laurent’s life expectancy would be even shorter than it was going to be in Delfeur. To actually ride out to the border with a company of his uncle’s men was madness.
‘Why are you doing this? Is it a forced move? You can’t think of a way around it?’ Damen searched Laurent’s face. ‘Is your reputation so far in the dirt that you think the Council will choose your uncle for the throne anyway, unless you prove yourself?’
‘You are right on the edge of what I will allow from you,’ said Laurent.
‘Take me with you to Delfeur,’ said Damen.
‘No.’
‘Akielos is my country. Do you think I want her overrun by your uncle’s troops? I will do anything in my power to prevent war. Take me with you. You will need someone you can trust.’
Speaking those last words, he almost winced, immediately regretting them. Laurent had asked him for trust last night, and he had thrown the words back in his face. He would receive the same treatment.
Laurent just gave him a blankly curious look. ‘Why would I need that?’
Damen stared at him, suddenly aware that if he asked, ‘Do you think you can juggle attempts on your life, military command, and your uncle’s tricks and traps by yourself?’ the answer was going to be: Yes.
‘I would have thought,’ said Laurent, ‘that a soldier like you would be quite happy to see Kastor dethroned, after all he’s done to you. Why not side with the Regency against him—and against me? I’m sure my uncle has approached you to spy for him, on very generous terms.’
‘He has.’ Remembering the banquet: ‘He asked me to bed you, then report back to him.’ Damen was forthright. ‘Not in those words.’
‘And your answer?’
That, unreasonably, annoyed him. ‘If I’d bedded you, you’d know it.’
There was a dangerous, narrow-eyed pause. Eventually: ‘Yes. Your style of grabbing your partner and kicking their legs open does stand out in the memory.’
‘That isn’t—’ Damen set his jaw, in no mood to get drawn into one of Laurent’s infuriating exchanges. ‘I’m an asset. I know the region. I will do whatever it takes to stop your uncle.’ He looked into the impersonal blue gaze. ‘I’ve helped you before. I can again. Use me however you will. Just—take me with you.’
‘You’re hot to help me? The fact that we ride towards Akielos factors in your request not at all?’
Damen flushed. ‘You will have one more person standing between you and your uncle. Isn’t that what you want?’
‘My dear brute,’ said Laurent, ‘I want you to rot here.’
Damen heard the metallic sound of the chain links before he realised that he had jerked against his restraints. They were Laurent’s parting words, spoken with relish. Laurent had turned for the door.
‘You can’t leave me here while you ride off into your uncle’s trap. There’s more than your life at stake.’ The words were harsh with frustration.
They had no effect; he could not prevent Laurent leaving. Damen swore.
‘Are you that sure of yourself?’ Damen called after him. ‘I think if you could beat your uncle on your own, you would have done it already.’
Laurent stopped in the doorway. Damen saw the cupped yellow of his head, the straight line of his back and shoulders. But Laurent didn’t turn back to face him; the hesitation only lasted for a moment before he continued out the door.
Damen was left to jerk once more, painfully, at the chains, alone.
Laurent’s apartments filled with the sounds of preparation, the hallways busy, men tramping to and fro in the delicate garden below. It was no small task to arrange an armed expedition in two days. Everywhere, there was activity.
Everywhere except here, in Damen’s rooms, where the only knowledge of the mission came from the sounds outside.
Laurent was leaving tomorrow. Laurent, infuriating, intolerable Laurent, was pursuing the worst possible course, and there was nothing Damen could do to stop him.
The Regent’s plans were impossible to guess. Damen had frankly no idea why he had waited as long as he had to move against his nephew. Was Laurent simply lucky that the Regent’s ambitions spanned two kingdoms? The Regent could have dispensed with his nephew years ago, with little fuss. It was easier to blame the death of a boy on mischance than that of a young man about to ascend to the throne. Damen could see no reason why boy-Laurent should have escaped that fate. Perhaps familial loyalty had held the Regent back . . . until Laurent had blossomed into poisonous maturity, sly-natured and unfit to rule. If
that was the case, Damen felt a certain amount of empathy with the man: Laurent could inspire homicidal tendencies simply by breathing.
It was a family of vipers. Kastor, he thought, had no idea what lay across the border. Kastor had embraced an alliance with Vere. He was vulnerable, ill-equipped to fight a war, the bonds within his own country showing cracks to which a foreign power had only to apply pressure.
The Regent must be stopped, Akielos must be rallied, and for that, Laurent must survive. It was impossible. Stuck here, Damen was powerless to act. And whatever cunning Laurent possessed was neutralised by the arrogance that prevented him from grasping how completely his uncle had him outmatched, once he left the capital to go traipsing across the countryside.
Did Laurent really believe he could do this alone? Laurent would need every weapon at his disposal in order to navigate this course alive. Yet Damen had not been able to persuade him of that. He was aware, not for the first time, of a fundamental inability to communicate with Laurent. It was not only that he was navigating a foreign language. It was as though Laurent was an entirely other species of animal. He had nothing but the stupid hope that somehow Laurent would change his mind.
The sun slid slowly across the sky outside, and in Damen’s locked chamber the shadows cast by the furniture moved in a dawdling semi-circle.
It happened in the hours before dawn the next morning. He woke to find servants in his room, and Radel, the overseer who never slept.
‘What is it? Is there some word from the Prince?’
He pushed himself up, one arm braced among the cushions, hand fisting in silk. He felt himself being manhandled before he was fully upright, the hands of the servants on him, and instinct almost shrugged them off, until he realised they were unlocking his restraints. The chain ends fell with a muffled chink into the cushions.
‘Yes. Change,’ said Radel, and dropped a bundle unceremoniously down onto the floor beside him, much as he had done the night before.