The word was difficult to get his mouth around, grating in his throat as he pushed it out. He looked across in disbelief at Erasmus. Nicaise had trailed off hand in hand with Laurent, leaving Erasmus behind, his leash forgotten on the ground beside him where he knelt. A soft breeze shifted his fair curls, and above them foliage moved like an awning of black silk.
‘He cares for your pleasure,’ explained Erasmus.
It took a moment for those words to attach to their correct meaning, and when they did a breath of helpless laughter was the only possible response. Laurent’s precise instructions and their inevitable result had not been intended as a kindness, but rather the opposite. There was no way to explain Laurent’s cool, intricate mind to the slave, and Damen didn’t try.
‘What is it?’ said Erasmus.
‘Nothing. Tell me. I wished for news of you and the others. How is it for you, so far from home? Are you well treated by your masters? I wondered . . . can you understand their language?’
Erasmus shook his head at the last question. ‘I—have a little skill with Patran and the northern dialects. Some words are similar.’ Haltingly, he said a few of them.
Erasmus managed the Veretian well enough; that was not what made Damen frown. The words Erasmus had been able to decipher from what had been said to him were: Silence. Kneel down. Don’t move.
‘Did I misspeak?’ said Erasmus, misinterpreting the expression.
‘No, you spoke well,’ Damen said, though his consternation remained. He didn’t like the choice of words. He didn’t like the idea that Erasmus and the others were rendered doubly powerless by an inability to speak or understand what was being said around them.
‘You . . . do not have the manner of a palace slave,’ offered Erasmus, hesitantly.
That was an understatement. No one from Akielos would mistake Damen for a body slave, he had neither the manner nor the physique. Damen regarded Erasmus thoughtfully, wondering how much to say. ‘I was not a slave in Akielos. I was sent here by Kastor, as punishment,’ he said, eventually. There was no point lying about that part of it.
‘Punishment,’ said Erasmus. His gaze dropped to the ground. His whole manner changed.
Damen said, ‘But you were trained in the palace? How long were you there?’ He couldn’t account for the fact that he had not seen this slave before.
Erasmus attempted a smile, rallying himself from whatever had disheartened him. ‘Yes. I—But I never saw the main palace, I was in training silks until I was chosen by the Keeper to come here. And my training in Akielos was very strict. It was thought . . . that is . . .’
‘That is?’ said Damen.
Erasmus blushed and said in a very soft voice: ‘In case he found me pleasing, I was being trained for the Prince.’
‘Were you?’ said Damen, with some interest.
‘Because of my colouring. You can’t see it in this light, but in daylight, my hair is almost blond.’
‘I can see it in this light,’ said Damen.
He could hear the approval saturating his own voice. He felt it shift the dynamic between them. He might as well have said, Good boy.
Erasmus reacted to the words like a flower inclining towards sunlight. It didn’t matter that he and Damen were technically the same rank, Erasmus was trained to respond to strength, to yearn for it and submit to it. His limbs subtly rearranged themselves, a flush spreading on his cheeks, his eyes dropping to the ground. His body became a supplication. The breeze toyed irresistibly with a curl that had tumbled over his forehead.
In the softest little voice he said, ‘This slave is beneath your attention.’
In Akielos, submission was an art, and the slave was the artisan. Now that he was showing his form, you could see that Erasmus was surely the prize pick of the Regent’s gift-slaves. Ridiculous, that he was being dragged around by the neck like an unwilling animal. It was like possessing a finely tuned instrument and using it to smash shells open. Misusing it.
He should be in Akielos, where his training would be fêted and prized. But it occurred to Damen that Erasmus might have been lucky in being chosen for the Regent, lucky in never having come to the attention of Prince Damianos. Damen had seen what had happened to the closest of his personal slaves. They had been killed.
He pushed the memory forcibly out of his mind and returned his attention to the slave in front of him.
Damen said, ‘And is your own master kind?’
‘This slave lives to s
erve,’ said Erasmus.
It was a formulaic set-phrase, and meant nothing. The behaviour of slaves was tightly proscribed, with the result that what was unsaid was often more important than what was said. Damen was already frowning a little when he chanced to look down.
The tunic Erasmus wore had been slightly disordered when he used it to wipe Damen’s cheek, and he’d had no chance to right it. The hem had lifted high enough to expose the top of his thigh. Erasmus, seeing the direction of Damen’s gaze, quickly pulled the cloth down to cover himself, stretching it as far as it would go.