by C. S. Pacat
Laurent was seated in the entrance area, which was arranged for visitors with chairs and a receiving table, much like a warfield tent. He was talking to one of the scruffier-looking servants about armaments. Except that he wasn’t talking, he was mostly listening. He waved Damen inside to wait.
The tent was warmed with braziers, and further lit by candles. In the foreground, Laurent continued speaking to the servant. Screened away at the back of the tent was the sleeping area, a tumble of cushions, silks and swathed bedding. And, emphatically separate, his own slave pallet.
The servant was dismissed, and Laurent rose. Damen turned his eyes from the bedding to the Prince, and found a silence stretching out in which Laurent’s cool blue gaze was on him.
‘Well? Attend me,’ said Laurent.
‘Attend,’ said Damen.
The word sank into him. He felt as he had in the training arena when he had been unwilling to go near the cross.
‘Have you forgotten how?’ Laurent said.
He said, ‘The last time, this did not end pleasantly.’
‘Then I suggest you behave better,’ said Laurent.
Laurent turned his back on Damen calmly and waited. The lacing of Laurent’s brocade outer garment began at his nape, and ran in a single line all the way down his back. It was ridiculous to . . . fear this. Damen stepped forward.
In order to begin unlacing the garment, he had to lift his fingers and brush to one side the ends of the gilt hair, soft as fox fur. When he did so, Laurent tipped his head very slightly, offering better access.
It was the normal duty of a body servant to dress and undress his master. Laurent accepted the service with the indifference of one long used to attendance. The opening in the brocade widened, revealing the white of an undershirt pressed warm against skin by the heavy outer fabric, and by armour atop that. Laurent’s skin and the shirt were the exact same delicate shade of white. Damen pushed the garment over Laurent’s shoulders and just for a moment felt, beneath his hands, the hard, corded tension of Laurent’s back.
‘That will do,’ said Laurent, stepping away and tossing the garment to one side himself. ‘Go and sit at the table.’
On the table was the familiar map, weighted by three oranges and a cup. Arranging himself in the chair opposite Damen, casual in pants and undershirt, Laurent picked up one of the oranges and started peeling it. One corner of the map rolled up.
‘When Vere fought Akielos at Sanpelier, there was a manoeuvre that broke through our eastern flank. Tell me how that worked,’ Laurent said.
* * *
In the morning, the camp woke early, and Jord asked Damen to the impromptu practice field by the armoury tent.
It was, in theory, a good idea. Damen and the Veretian soldiers were proponents of different styles, and there were many things that they could learn from one another. Damen certainly liked the idea of returning to steady practice, and if Govart was not organising drills, an informal gathering would substitute.
When he arrived at the armoury tent, he took a moment to survey the field. The Prince’s men were doing sword work, and his eye caught on Jord and Orlant, and then Aimeric. Not many of the Regent’s men were there with them, but one or two were, including Lazar.
There had been no explosion last night, and Orlant and Lazar were within a hundred paces of each other without any sign of bodily harm, but that meant that Orlant had a grievance that had not yet been expressed to his satisfaction, and as Orlant stopped what he was doing and came forward, Damen found himself face to face with a challenge that he should have predicted.
He caught the wooden practice sword instinctively when Orlant tossed it to him.
‘You any good?’
‘Yes,’ said Damen.
He could see from the look in Orlant’s eyes what he intended. People were beginning to take notice, pause in their own practice.
‘This isn’t a good idea,’ said Damen.
‘That’s right. You don’t like fights,’ said Orlant. ‘You prefer going behind people’s backs.’
The sword was a practice weapon, wood from pommel to blade-tip, with leather wound around the hilt to provide a grip. Damen felt the weight of it in his hand.
‘Afraid to spar?’ said Orlant.
‘No,’ said Damen.
‘Then what? Can’t fight?’ said Orlant. ‘You’re only here to fuck the Prince?’
Damen swung. Orlant parried, and they were immediately caught up in the to-and-fro of a hard exchange. Wooden swords were unlikely to deal fatal blows but they could bruise and break bone. Orlant fought with that in mind: his attacks held nothing back. Damen, having launched the first assault, now gave a step of ground.
It was the kind of fighting that was done in battle, fast and hard, not in a duel, where the first few engagements were usually exploratory, cautious and testing, especially when the opponent was unknown. Here sword clashed against sword, and the flurry of blows ceased only for a moment here and there, to be taken up, quickly, again.
Orlant was good. He was among the best of the men on the field, a distinction he shared with Lazar, Jord, and one or two of the other Prince’s men, each of whom Damen recognised from his weeks of captivity. Damen supposed he should feel flattered that Laurent had set his best swordsmen to guard him in the palace.
It was over a month since Damen had last used a sword. It felt like longer since that day—that day in Akielos, when he had been naive enough to ask to see his brother. A month, but he was used to hours of hard daily training, a schedule begun in early childhood, into which a month’s break meant nothing. It was not even long enough for sword calluses to soften.
He had missed fighting. It satisfied something deep within him to ground himself in physicality, to focus on one art, on one person, move and countermove at a speed at which thought became instinct. Yet the Veretian fighting style was different enough that responses could not be purely automatic, and Damen experienced a feeling that was partly release and partly simple enjoyment with a great deal held, carefully, in check.
A minute or two more and Orlant disengaged, and swore. ‘Are you going to fight me or not?’
‘You said we were sparring,’ said Damen, neutrally.
Orlant flung down his sword, took two steps off to one of the watching men, and pulled from its sheath thirty inches of polished steel straightsword, which without preamble he returned to swing with killing speed at Damen’s neck.
There was no time to think. There was no time to guess whether Orlant intended to pull the blow or whether he really meant to cleave Damen in half. The straightsword could not be parried. With Orlant’s weight and momentum behind it, it would slice through a wooden practice sword as easily as it would through butter.
Faster than the sword strike, Damen moved—inside Orlant’s range and still moving, and in the next second Orlant’s back hit the dirt, the wind knocked hard out of his chest, the tip of Damen’s sword at his throat.
Around them, the training area had gone quiet.
Damen stepped back. Orlant, slowly, got to his feet. His sword lay on the ground.
No one spoke. Orlant looked from his discarded sword to Damen and back again, but otherwise didn’t move. Damen felt Jord’s hand clasping his shoulder, and he removed his eyes from Orlant and looked in the direction that Jord indicated briefly with his chin.
Laurent had come into the training area and was standing not far off, by the arms tent, watching them.
‘He was looking for you,’ said Jord.
Damen passed his own sword off and went to him.
He walked over the tufted grass. Laurent made no attempt to meet him halfway, but simply waited. A breeze had sprung up. The flagging on the tent was flapping violently.
‘You were looking for me?’
Laurent didn’t answer, and Damen couldn’t interpret his expression.
&n
bsp; ‘What is it?’ said Damen.
‘You’re better than I am.’
Damen couldn’t help his amused breath of reaction to that, or the long, scrolling look from Laurent’s head to his toes and back again, which was probably a little insulting. But really.
Laurent flushed. The colour hit his cheeks hard, and a muscle tightened in his jaw as whatever he felt was forcibly repressed. It was not like any reaction that Damen had ever seen from him before, and he couldn’t resist pushing it a little further.
‘Why? Do you want to spar? We can keep it friendly,’ Damen said.
‘No,’ said Laurent.
Whatever might have passed between them after that was forestalled by Jord, who was approaching from behind him with Aimeric.
‘Your Highness. Apologies, if you need more time with—’
‘No,’ said Laurent. ‘I’ll speak with you instead. Follow me back to the main camp.’
The two walked off together, leaving Damen with Aimeric.
‘He hates you,’ said Aimeric, cheerfully.
At the end of the day’s ride, Jord came to find him.
He liked Jord. He liked his pragmatism and the sense of responsibility he so clearly felt towards the men. Whatever background Jord had risen from, he had the makings of a fine leader. Even with all the additional duties Jord was shouldering, he had still taken the time to do this.
‘I want you to know,’ said Jord, ‘when I asked you to join us this morning, it wasn’t to give Orlant the chance to—’
‘I know that,’ said Damen.
Jord nodded slowly. ‘Any time you want the practice, I’d be honoured to go a few rounds against you. I’m a lot better than Orlant.’
‘I know that too,’ said Damen.
He got the closest thing to a smile he’d received from Jord. ‘You weren’t that good when you fought Govart.’
‘When I fought Govart,’ said Damen, ‘I had my lungs full of chalis.’
Another slow nod.
‘I’m not sure how it is in Akielos,’ said Jord, ‘but . . . you shouldn’t take that stuff before a fight. Slows your reflexes. Saps your strength. Just some friendly advice.’
‘Thank you,’ said Damen, after a long, drawn out moment had passed.
* * *
When it happened, it was Lazar again, and Aimeric. It was the third night of the ride, and they were camped at Bailleux Keep, a brokendown structure with a fancy name. Lodgings inside were poor enough that the men eschewed the barracks and even Laurent remained in his confection of a tent rather than spend the night indoors, but there were a few household servants in attendance and the keep formed part of a supply line that allowed the men to restock.
However the fight started, by the time anyone else heard it, Aimeric was on the ground with Lazar standing over him. He was dusty but unblooded this time. It was bad luck that Govart was the one to intervene, which he did, dragging Aimeric up, and then backhanding him across the face for making trouble. Govart was one of the first to arrive, but by the time Aimeric was rising to his feet nursing his jaw, a respectable crowd was gathering, drawn by the noise.
It was bad luck that it was late evening, and that most of the work for the day was done, giving the men free time to gather.
Jord had to physically hold Orlant back, and Govart didn’t help by telling Jord to keep his men in line. Aimeric wasn’t here to get special treatment, Govart said, and if anyone retaliated against Lazar, they’d get the post. Violence slid across the men like oil waiting for a flame, and if Lazar had made a single move of aggression it would have ignited, but he took a step back, and had the good grace—or the smarts—to look troubled with Govart’s pronouncement rather than pleased.
Jord somehow managed to keep the peace, but when the men dispersed, he broke the chain of command completely, and made straight for Laurent’s tent.
Damen waited until he saw Jord exit. Then he took a deep breath, and sought entrance himself.
When he walked into Laurent’s tent, Laurent said, ‘You think I should have Lazar turned off. I’ve already heard it from Jord.’
Damen said, ‘Lazar’s a decent swordsman, and he’s one of the few of your uncle’s men who buckles down to work. I think you should have Aimeric turned off.’
‘What?’ said Laurent.
‘He’s too young. He’s too attractive. He starts fights. He’s not the reason I came to speak with you, but since you asked what I think: Aimeric causes problems, and one day soon he’s going to stop making eyes at you and let one of the men fuck him, and the problems will get worse.’
Laurent absorbed that. But: ‘I can’t turn him off,’ said Laurent. ‘His father is Councillor Guion. The man you knew as the Ambassador to Akielos.’
Damen stared at him. He thought of Aimeric defending Laurent in the armoury, holding a bloody nose. He said, evenly, ‘And which one of the border castles does his father hold?’
‘Fortaine,’ said Laurent, in the same voice.
‘You’re using a boy to gain influence with his father?’
‘Aimeric’s not a child lured in with a honeyed treat. He’s Guion’s fourth son. He knows that his being here splits his father’s loyalty. It’s half the reason he joined me. He wants his father’s attention,’ said Laurent. ‘If you’re not here to talk to me about Aimeric, why are you here?’
‘You told me that if I had concerns or objections, you would hear arguments in private,’ said Damen. ‘I came here to speak with you about Govart.’
Laurent nodded slowly.
Damen cast his mind back over the days of shoddy discipline. Tonight’s fight had been the perfect opportunity for a captain to step in and begin to take control of the problems in the camp, with scrupulously equal punishments and the message that violence from either faction would not be tolerated. Instead, the situation had worsened. He was forthright.
‘I know that—for whatever reason—you are giving Govart free rein. Perhaps you hope he’ll fall to his own mistakes, or that the more difficulties he causes the easier it will be to dismiss him. But it isn’t working like that. Now the men resent him, but by morning they will resent you for not mastering him. He needs to be brought swiftly under your command, and disciplined for not following orders.’
‘But he is following orders,’ said Laurent. And then, at Damen’s reaction: ‘Not my orders.’
He had guessed that much at least, though he wondered what commands the Regent would have given to Govart. Do as you please and don’t listen to my nephew. He thought, probably something exactly like that.
‘I know you are capable of bringing Govart to heel without it being seen as an act of aggression against your uncle. I can’t believe you fear Govart. If you did, you’d never have set me against him in the ring. If you’re afraid of—’
‘That’s enough,’ said Laurent.
Damen set his jaw. ‘The longer this goes on, the harder it will be to regain face with your uncle’s men. They already talk about you like—’
‘I said that’s enough,’ said Laurent.
Damen was silent. It took a great deal of effort. Laurent was staring at him with a frown.
‘Why do you give me good advice?’ asked Laurent.
Isn’t that why you brought me with you? Instead of speaking those words aloud, Damen said, ‘Why don’t you take any of it?’
‘Govart is Captain and he has resolved matters to my satisfaction,’ said Laurent. But the frown hadn’t left his face, and his eyes were opaque, as though his thoughts had turned inward. ‘I have business to attend to outside. I won’t require your services this evening. You have my leave to retire.’
Damen watched Laurent go, and only with half his mind experienced the urge to throw things. He knew by now that Laurent never acted precipitously, but always walked away and gave himself time and space alone to think. It was now time
to step back and hope.
CHAPTER 3
Damen didn’t fall asleep right away, though he had more luxurious sleeping arrangements than any of the soldiers in the camp. His slave pallet was soft with pillows, and he had silk against his skin.
He was awake when Laurent returned, and he pushed himself half up, unsure if he was needed. Laurent ignored him. Laurent, at night when their conversations were done, habitually paid him no more attention than a piece of furniture. Tonight Laurent sat at the table and wrote a dispatch by the light of the table candle. When he was finished, he folded and then sealed the dispatch with red wax and a signet that he did not wear on his finger but kept in a fold of his clothes.
He just sat for a while, after that. On his face was the same inward-turned expression that he had worn earlier that night. Eventually Laurent rose, snuffed the candle with his fingertips, and in the shadowed half-light from the braziers prepared himself for bed.
* * *
The morning began well enough.
Damen rose and attended to his duties. Fires were doused, tents were packed up and loaded onto wagons, and the men began readying themselves to ride. The dispatch that Laurent had written the night before galloped off to the east with a horse and a rider.
The insults that were bandied about were good-natured and no one was thrown into the dirt, which was about the best that could be hoped for from this group, Damen thought, as he prepared his saddlery.
He became aware of Laurent on the periphery of his vision, pale-haired and wearing riding leathers. He was not the only one paying Laurent attention. More than one head was turned in Laurent’s direction, and a few men had begun to gather. Laurent had Lazar and Aimeric before him. Feeling a flicker of unnamed anxiety, Damen put the saddlery he was working on down and made his way over.
Aimeric, who showed everything on his face, was giving Laurent an open look of hero worship and mortification. It was clearly an agony to him that he was being brought to his Prince’s attention for an indiscretion. Lazar was harder to read.