This question had struck Damen as funny. It must have shown on his face, because a second much harder slap followed the first. The sting of it momentarily cleared the blackness that was pressing in on his vision; Damen had taken this further hold on consciousness and held to it. Passing out was not something he had ever done before, but it was a day of firsts, and he was taking no chances.
‘Don’t let him die yet,’ was the last thing Laurent had said.
The Prince’s word was law. And so, for the small price of the skin off his back, there were a number of compromises to Damen’s imprisonment, including the dubious perquisite of regular pokes from the physician.
A bed replaced the floor cushions, so that he could lie comfortably on his stomach (to protect his back). He was also given blankets and various coloured silk wraps, though he must use them to cover the lower half of his body only (to protect his back). The chain remained, but instead of attaching to his collar it was locked to one golden wrist-cuff (to protect his back). The concern for his back also struck him as funny.
He was bathed frequently, his skin softly sponged with water drawn from a tub. Afterwards, the servants disposed of the water, which, on the first day, was red.
Remarkably, the biggest change was not in the furnishings and routines, it was in the attitude of the servants and the men guarding him. Damen might have expected them to react like Radel, with animosity and outrage. Instead, there was sympathy from the servants. From the guards there was, even more unexpectedly, camaraderie. Where the ring fight had positioned Damen as a fellow fighter, being pulverised under the Prince’s lash had apparently made him one of the fraternity. Even the taller guard, Orlant, who had threatened Damen after the ring fight, seemed to have somewhat warmed to him. Inspecting Damen’s back, Orlant had—not without some pride—proclaimed the Prince a cast-iron bitch, and clapped Damen cheerfully on the shoulder, turning him momentarily ashen.
In turn, Damen was careful not to ask any questions that would earn him suspicion. Instead, he embarked on a determined cultural exchange.
Was it true that in Akielos they blinded those who looked on the King’s harem? No, it wasn’t. Was it true that Akielon women went bare-breasted in summer? Yes, it was. And the wrestling matches were fought naked? Yes. And the slaves also went naked? Yes. Akielos might have a bastard King and a whore Queen but it sounded like paradise to Orlant. Laughter.
A bastard King and a whore Queen; Laurent’s crude apothegm had, Damen discovered, entered common usage.
Damen unlocked his jaw and let it pass. Security was relaxing in small increments, and he now knew a way out of the palace. He tried, impartially, to view this as a fair exchange for a lashing (two lashings, his back reminded him tenderly).
He ignored his back. He focused on anything and everything else.
The men guarding him were the Prince’s Guard, and had no affiliation with the Regent whatsoever. It surprised Damen how loyal they were to their Prince, and how diligent in his service, airing none of the grudges and complaints that he might have expected, considering Laurent’
s noxious personality. Laurent’s feud with his uncle they took up wholeheartedly; there were deep schisms and rivalries between the Prince’s Guard and the Regent’s Guard, apparently.
It had to be Laurent’s looks that inspired the allegiance of his men, and not Laurent himself. The closest the men got to disrespect was a series of ribald comments regarding Laurent’s appearance. Their loyalty apparently did not prohibit the fantasy of fucking the Prince taking on mythic proportions.
Was it true, asked Jord, that in Akielos the male nobility kept female slaves, and the ladies fucked men?
‘They don’t in Vere?’ Damen recalled that, inside the ring and out of it, he had seen only same-sex pairings. His knowledge of Veretian culture did not extend to the practices of intimacy. ‘Why not?’
‘No one of high birth invites the abomination of bastardry,’ said Jord, matter-of-factly. Female pets were kept by ladies, male pets were kept by lords.
‘You mean that men and women—never—’
Never. Not among the nobility. Well, sometimes, if they were perverse. It was taboo. Bastards were a blight, Jord said. Even among the guard, if you screwed women, you kept quiet about it. If you got a woman pregnant and didn’t marry her your career was over. Better to avoid the problem, follow the example of the nobility, and screw men. Jord preferred men. Didn’t Damen? You knew what was what, with men. And you could spurt without fear.
Damen was wisely silent. His own preference was for women; it seemed ill-advised to admit this. On the rare occasions when Damen pleased himself with men, he did so because he was attracted to them as men, not because he had any reason to avoid women, or substitute for them. Veretians, thought Damen, made things needlessly complicated for themselves.
Here and there, useful information emerged. Pets weren’t guarded, which explained the lack of men at the perimeter of the harem. Pets came and went as they pleased. Damen was the exception. It meant that once past these guards, it was unlikely that he would encounter others.
Here and there, the subject of Laurent was raised.
‘Have you . . . ?’ said Jord to Damen, with a slowly spreading smile.
‘Between the ring fight and the lashing?’ said Damen, sourly. ‘No.’
‘They say he’s frigid.’
Damen stared at him. ‘What? Why?’
‘Well,’ said Jord, ‘because he doesn’t—’
‘I meant why is he so,’ said Damen, cutting off Jord’s prosaic explanation firmly.
‘Why is snow cold?’ said Jord with a shrug.
Damen frowned and changed the subject. Damen was not interested in Laurent’s proclivities. Since the cross, his feelings towards Laurent had solidified from prickling dislike into something hard and implacable.