‘You’ve got something of ours,’ said Jord.
‘The traitor?’ said the soldier in charge. ‘You’ve no rights here. Leave now, and I’ll let you go peacefully back.’
‘We’re not the peaceful sort,’ said Jord. His sword was unsheathed. ‘We don’t leave without the slave.’
‘You’d defy Council orders?’ said the soldier in charge.
The soldier in charge was left in the unenviable position of facing down three riders on foot. It was a small alley. And Jord had his sword out. Behind him, the reds and the blues were about equal in numbers. But the soldier in charge didn’t seem fazed.
He said, ‘Drawing on the Regent’s Guard is an act of treason.’
In answer, with casual contempt, Orlant drew his sword. Instantly, metal flashed all along the ranks behind him. Crossbows bristled on both sides. Nobody breathed.
Jord said, ‘The Prince is before the Council. Your orders are an hour old. Kill the slave, and you’ll be the next one with your head on the block.’
‘That’s a lie,’ said the soldier in charge.
Jord pulled something out of a fold in his uniform, and dangled it. It was a councillor’s medallion. It swung on its chain in the torchlight, glinting gold as a starburst. Into the silence, Jord said:
‘Want to bet?’
‘You must be the fuck of a lifetime,’ said Orlant, just before he shoved Damen into the audience chamber where Laurent stood alone, in front of the Regent and Council.
It was the same diorama as last time, with the Regent enthroned and the Council in full dress, formidably arrayed alongside him, except that there were no courtiers thronging the chamber, it was just Laurent, alone, facing them. Damen immediately looked to see which councillor was missing his medallion. It was Herode.
Another shove. Damen’s knees hit the carpet, which was red like the cloaks of the Regent’s Guard. He was right near a part of the tapestry where a boar was speared under a tree heavy with pomegranates.
He looked up.
‘My nephew has argued for you very persuasively,’ said the Regent. And then, oddly echoing Orlant’s words, ‘You must have hidden charm. Maybe it’s your physique he finds so appealing. Or do you have other talents?’
Laurent’s cold, calm voice: ‘Do you imply I take the slave into my bed? What a revolting suggestion. He’s a brute soldier from Kastor’s army.’
Laurent had assumed, once again, the intolerable self-possession, and was dressed for a formal audience. He was not, as Damen had last seen him, languid and somnolent-eyed, head tipped back against a wall. The handful of hours that had passed since Damen’s escape was enough time for the drug to have passed from his system. Probably. Though of course there was no way of telling how long Laurent had been in this room, arguing with the Council.
‘Only a soldier? And yet, you’ve described the bizarre circumstance in which three men broke into your chambers in order to attack him,’ said the Regent. He regarded Damen briefly. ‘If he doesn’t lie with you, what was he doing in your private space so late at night?’
The temperature, already cool, dropped sharply. ‘I don’t lie in the cloying sweat of men from Akielos,’ said Laurent.
‘Laurent. If there has been an Akielon attack against you that you are concealing for some reason, we must and will know about it. The question is serious.’
‘So was my answer. I don’t know how this interrogation found its way into my bed. May I ask where I can expect it to travel next?’
The heavy folds of a state robe swathed the throne on which the Regent sat. With the curve of a finger, he stroked the line of his bearded jaw. He looked again at Damen, before returning his attention to his nephew.
‘You wouldn’t be the first young man to find himself at the mercy of a flush of new infatuation. Inexperience often confuses bedding with love. The slave could have convinced you to lie to us for him, having taken advantage of your innocence.’
‘Taken advantage of my innocence,’ said Laurent.
‘We’ve all seen you favour him. Seated beside you at table. Fed by your own hand. Indeed, you’ve barely been seen without him, the last few days.’
‘Yesterday I brutalised him. Today I am swooning into his arms. I would prefer the charges against me to be consistent. Pick one.’
‘I don’t need to pick one, nephew, you have a full range of vices, and inconsistency is the cap.’
‘Yes, apparently I have fucked my enemy, conspired against my future interests, and colluded in my own murder. I can’t wait to see what feats I will perform next.’
It was only by looking at the councillors that you could see that this interview had been going on a long time. Older men, dragged out of their beds, they were all showing signs of weariness.
‘And yet, the slave ran,’ said the Regent.
‘Are we back to this?’ said Laurent. ‘There was no assault against me. If I’d been attacked by four armed men, do you really think I would have survived, killing three? The slave ran for no more sinister reason than that he is difficult and rebellious. I believe I have mentioned his intractable nature to you—all of you—before. You chose to disbelieve me then, also.’
‘It isn’t a question of belief. This defence of the slave bothers me. It isn’t like you. It speaks to an uncharacteristic attachment. If he has led you to sympathise with forces outside your own country—’
‘Sympathise with
Akielos
?’
The cold disgust with which Laurent said these words was more persuasive than any hot burst of outrage. One or two of the councillors shifted in place.
Herode said, awkwardly, ‘I hardly think he could be accused of that, not when his father—and brother—’
‘No one,’ said Laurent, ‘has more reason to oppose Akielos than I have. If Kastor’s gift slave had attacked me, it would be grounds for war. I would be overjoyed. I stand here for one reason only: the truth. You have heard it. I will not argue further. The slave is innocent or he is guilty. Decide.’
‘Before we decide,’ said the Regent. ‘You will answer this: If your opposition towards Akielos is genuine, as you maintain, if there is not some collusion, why do you continually refuse to do service on the border at Delfeur? I think, if you were loyal as you claimed, you would pick up your sword, gather what little there is of your honour, and do your duty.’
‘I,’ said Laurent.
The Regent sat back on the throne, spread his hands palm down on the dark, carved wood of the curled armrests, and waited.
‘I—don’t see why that should be—’
It was Audin who said, ‘It
is
a contradiction.’
‘But one that’s easily resolved,’ said Guion. Behind him, there were one or two murmurs of assent. Councillor Herode slowly nodded.
Laurent passed his gaze over each member of the Council.
Anyone appraising the situation at that moment would have seen how precarious it was. The councillors were weary of this argument, and ready to accept any solution that the Regent was offering, however artificial it might seem.
Laurent had only two options: earn himself their censure by continuing a beleaguered wrangle mired in accusations and failure, or agree to border duty and get what he wanted.
More than that, it was late, and human nature being what it was, if Laurent did not agree to his uncle’s offer, the councillors might turn on him simply for drawing this out further. And Laurent’s loyalty was in question now too.
Laurent said, ‘You’re right, uncle. Avoiding my responsibilities has led you understandably to doubt my word. I will ride to Delfeur and fulfil my duty on the border. I dislike the idea that there are questions about my loyalty.’
The Regent spread his hands in a pleased gesture.
‘That answer must satisfy everyone,’ said the Regent. He received his agreement from the Council, five verbal affirmations, given one after the other, after which he looked at Damen, and said, ‘I believe we can acquit the slave, with no more questions about loyalty.’
‘I humbly submit to your judgement, uncle,’ said Laurent, ‘and to the judgement of the Council.’
‘Release the slave,’ the Regent ordered.
Damen felt hands at his wrists, unbinding the rope. It was Orlant, who had been standing behind him, this whole time. The motions were short jerks.
‘There. It is done. Come,’ said the Regent to Laurent, extending his right hand. On the smallest finger was his ring of office, gold, capped with a red stone: ruby, or garnet.
Laurent came forward, and knelt before him gracefully, a single kneecap to the floor.
‘Kiss it,’ said the Regent, and Laurent lowered his head in obedience to kiss his uncle’s signet ring.
His body language was calm and respectful; the fall of his golden hair hid his expression. His lips touched the hard red kernel of the gem without haste, then parted from it. He did not rise. The Regent gazed down at him.
After a moment, Damen saw the Regent’s hand lift again to rest in Laurent’s hair and stroke it with slow, familiar affection. Laurent remained quite still, head bowed, as strands of fine gold were pushed back from his face by the Regent’s heavy, ringed fingers.
‘Laurent. Why must you always defy me? I hate it when we are at odds, yet you force me to chastise you. You seem determined to wreck everything in your path. Blessed with gifts, you squander them. Given opportunities, you waste them. I hate to see you grown up like this,’ said the Regent, ‘when you were such a lovely boy.’
T
HE RARE MOMENT
of avuncular affection ended the meeting, and the Regent and Council left the chamber. Laurent remained, rising from where he knelt, watching his uncle and the councillors file out. Orlant, who had bowed his way out after releasing Damen from his bonds, was gone also. They were alone.
Damen rose without thinking. He remembered after a second or two that he was supposed to wait for some sort of order from Laurent, but by then it was too late: he was on his feet and the words were out of his mouth.
‘You lied to your uncle to protect me,’ he said.
Six feet of tapestried carpet lay between them. He didn’t mean it the way it sounded. Or maybe he did. Laurent’s eyes narrowed.
‘Have I once again offended your high-minded principles? Perhaps you can suggest a more wholesome détente. I seem to recall telling you not to wander off.’
Damen could hear, distantly, the shock in his own voice. ‘I don’t understand why you would do that to help me, when telling the truth would have served you far better.’
‘If you don’t mind, I think I’ve heard enough said about my character for one night, or am I to go twelve rounds with you too? I will.’
‘No, I—didn’t mean—’ What did he mean? He knew what he was supposed to say: gratitude from the rescued slave. It wasn’t how he felt. He’d been so close. The only reason he’d been discovered at all was because of Govart, who would not be his enemy if not for Laurent.
Thank you,
meant thank you for being dragged back to be shackled and tied up inside this cage of a palace. Again.
Yet, unequivocally, Laurent had saved his life. Laurent and his uncle were close to being a match when it came to bloodless verbal brutality. Damen had felt exhausted just listening to it. He wondered exactly how long Laurent had stood his ground before he had been brought in.
I can’t protect you as I am now
, Laurent had said. Damen hadn’t thought about what protection might entail, but he would never have imagined that Laurent would step into the ring on his behalf. And stay in it.
‘I meant—that I am gratef—’
Laurent cut him off. ‘There is nothing further between us, certainly not
thanks
. Expect no future niceties from me. Our debt is clear.’
But the slight frown with which Laurent regarded Damen was not wholly one of hostility; it accompanied a long, searching look. After a moment:
‘I meant it when I said I disliked feeling indebted to you.’ And then: ‘You had far less reason to help me than I did to help you.’
‘That’s certainly true.’
‘You don’t prettify what you think, do you?’ said Laurent, still frowning. ‘A more artful man would. An artful man would have stayed put, and won advantage by fostering the sense of obligation and guilt in his master.’
‘I didn’t realise you had a sense of guilt,’ said Damen, bluntly.
An apostrophe appeared at one corner of Laurent’s lips. He moved a few steps away from Damen, touching the worked armrest of the throne with his fingertips. And then, in a sprawling, relaxed posture, he sat down on it. ‘Well, take heart. I am riding to Delfeur, and we will be rid of each other.’
‘Why does the idea of border duty bother you so much?’
‘I’m a coward, remember?’
Damen thought about that. ‘Are you? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you shy away from a fight. More like the opposite.’
The apostrophe deepened. ‘True.’
‘Then—’
Laurent said, ‘It doesn’t concern you.’
Another pause. Laurent’s relaxed sprawl on the throne had a boneless quality, and Damen wondered, as Laurent continued to gaze at him, whether the drug still lingered in his veins. When Laurent spoke, the tone was conversational.