A hard grip on his shoulder forced him down; as soon as Damen’s knees hit the ground, a sword was held to his throat to dissuade him from rising. Herode and Laurent were disappearing away together, just one more couple wandering the perfumed garden paths.
The revelry across the way began to spill out into the garden, and, steadily, its population increased, and lanterns were hung, and servants began to wander about with refreshments. The place where Damen knelt remained reasonably out of the way, but occasionally courtiers passed him, and remarked on him: look, there is the Prince’s barbarian slave.
Frustration curled in him like a lash. He was once again tied up. The guard was less nonchalant about restraining him than Laurent. He was chained to the metal bower by his collar, and this time it was a real chain, not something he could snap.
Little pet, thought Damen with disgust. From Herode’s fraught exchange with Laurent he picked the only salient piece of information.
Somewhere inside, not far away, were the other Akielon slaves.
Damen’s mind returned to them. His concern for their wellbeing persisted, but their proximity raised perturbing questions. What was the provenance of these slaves? Were they palace slaves, trained by Adrastus, and brought as Damen had been directly from the capital? Held in solitary confinement aboard the ship, Damen had not yet seen the slaves, nor had they seen him. But if they were palace slaves, handpicked from the best of those who served royalty in Akielos, there was a chance that they would recognise him.
In the unfolding quiet of the courtyard, he heard the soft chime of small bells.
Chained up in an obscure part of the garden away from the courtly entertainments, it was just sheer bad luck that one of the slaves was brought to him.
On the end of a leash, led by a Veretian pet. The slave wore a petite version of Damen’s gold collar and wrist-cuffs. The pet was the source of the bells. He was belled like a cat, at his throat. He was wearing a great deal of paint. And he was familiar.
It was Councillor Audin’s pet, the child.
Damen cheerlessly supposed that to those susceptible to little boys, this pet probably had charms in abundance. Under the paint, he had a child’s fine clear skin. If his features had been possessed by a girl of the same age, they would have promised, given half a dozen years, a superlatively beautiful young woman. A learned grace disguised, for the most part, the limitations of his undersized child’s limbs. Like Damen, he had precious stones woven into his hair, though in his case they were seed pearls, glinting like stars in a tumble of brown curls. His best feature was a pair of amazing blue eyes, unmatched by any Damen had ever seen, except for the ones he had recently been staring into.
The boy’s pretty bow lips formed the shape of a kiss, and he spat, right into Damen’s face.
‘My name is Nicaise,’ he said. ‘You’re not important enough to refuse me. Your master had all his land and money taken away. Even if he hadn’t, you’re just a slave. The Regent sent me to find the Prince. Where is he?’
‘He went back to the audience chamber,’ Damen said. To say that he was taken aback by Nicaise was an understatement. The lie just came out.
Nicaise stared at him. Then he tugged brutally on the slave’s leash. The slave was wrenched forward and almost overbalanced, like a colt on over-long legs. ‘I’m not going to drag you around all night. Wait here for me.’ Nicaise tossed the slave’s leash onto the ground and turned on his heel, bells chiming.
Damen lifted his hand to his wet face. Instantly, the slave was on his knees beside him, and a soft hand was on his wrist, drawing it back.
‘Please, let me. You will smudge the paint.’
The slave was looking right at him. Damen saw no recognition in his face. The slave simply lifted the hem of his tunic and used it to dab gently at Damen’s cheek.
Damen relaxed. He thought, a little ruefully, that it was probably arrogant of him to have assumed that the slave would know him. He supposed that he looked rather unlike a prince, in gold shackles and gold paint, shackled to an arbour in the middle of a Veretian garden.
He also felt sure that this slave was not from the palace in Akielos; Damen would have noticed him. The slave’s colouring was eye-catching. His skin was fair and his curling light brown hair was burnished with gold. He was exactly the type that Damen could have drawn down onto the sheets and spent a very pleasant couple of hours enjoying.
The slave’s careful fingers touched his face. Damen felt a moment of obscure guilt for having sent Nicaise off on a wild goose chase. But he was also glad for this unexpected moment alone with a slave from his homeland.
‘What’s your name?’ said Damen, softly.
‘Erasmus.’
‘Erasmus, it’s good to talk to another Akielon.’
He meant it. The contrast between this demure, lovely slave and the spiteful Nicaise made him crave the straightforward simplicity of home. At the same time, Damen felt a throb of concern for the Akielon slaves. Their sweet-natured obedience was hardly a blueprint for survival in this court. Damen guessed Erasmus to be about eighteen or nineteen, yet he would be eaten alive by thirteen-year-old Nicaise. Let alone Laurent.
‘There was a slave who was kept drugged and bound aboard the ship,’ Erasmus said, tentatively. From the first, he had spoken Akielon. ‘They said he was given to the Prince.’
Damen nodded slowly, answering the unspoken question. As well as tousled light brown curls, Erasmus had a pair of the most hopelessly artless hazel eyes Damen had ever seen.
‘What a charming picture,’ said a woman’s voice.
Jerking back from Damen, Erasmus instantly prostrated himself, pressing his forehead to the ground. Damen stayed where he was. Kneeling and shackled was quite submissive enough.
The woman who had spoken was Vannes. She was strolling the garden paths with two noblemen. One of the men had a pet with him, a red-haired youth who Damen also faintly recognised from the ring.