‘No.’
Laurent had closed the lacings on his shirt, and the picture he now presented was immaculate.
‘Well? Put it on,’ he said, with a touch of impatience.
The leash, he meant.
Torveld of Patras was in the palace to negotiate a trade agreement. That much was true. Damen had heard the news from
several sources. He remembered Vannes discussing the Patran delegation, several nights ago, in the garden. Patras had a culture similar to that of Akielos; that, also, was true. Perhaps the rest followed. If a consignment of slaves was on offer, Torveld would conceivably bargain for them, knowing their value. It might be true.
Perhaps. Maybe. Might.
Laurent was not feigning any change of heart, or warmth of feeling. His wall of contempt was firmly in place—was even more evident than usual, as though this act of benevolence was forcing all his considerable dislike to the surface. Damen found that the necessity of winning Laurent over to his cause was giving way to the sobering realisation that he had put the fate of the others into the hands of a volatile, malicious man he did not trust and could not predict, nor understand.
He felt no new rush of warmth for Laurent. He was not inclined to believe that cruelty delivered with one hand was redeemed by a caress from the other, if that’s even what this was. Nor was he naive enough to think that Laurent was acting out of any altruistic impulse. Laurent was doing this for some twisty reason of his own.
If it was true.
When the leash was affixed, Laurent took hold of the handler’s staff and said, ‘You’re my pet. You outrank others. You do not need to submit to the orders of anyone except myself and my uncle. If you blurt out tonight’s plans to him, he will be very, very annoyed with me, which you might enjoy, but you won’t like my riposte. It’s your choice, of course.’
Of course.
Laurent paused on the threshold. ‘One more thing.’
They were standing beneath a high arch, which threw shadows on Laurent’s face and made it difficult to read. It was a moment before he spoke.
‘Be careful of Nicaise, the pet you saw with Councillor Audin. You rejected him in the ring, and that is not a slight he is likely to forget.’
‘Councillor Audin’s pet? The child?’ Incredulous.
‘Don’t underestimate him because of his age. He has experienced things many adults have not, and his mind is no longer that of a child. Though even a child may learn how to manipulate an adult. And you’re mistaken: Councillor Audin is not his master. Nicaise is dangerous.’
‘He’s thirteen years old,’ said Damen, and found himself subjected to Laurent’s long-lidded gaze. ‘Is there anyone at this court who isn’t my enemy?’
‘Not if I can help it,’ Laurent said.
‘So he’s tame,’ said Estienne, and reached out tentatively, as though to pat a wild animal.
It was a question of which part of the animal he was patting. Damen knocked his hand away. Estienne gave a yelp and snatched his hand back, nursing it against his chest.
‘Not that tame,’ said Laurent.
He didn’t reprimand Damen. He didn’t seem particularly displeased with barbaric behaviour, as long as it was directed outward. Like a man who enjoys owning an animal who will rake others with its claws but eat peacefully from his own hand, he was giving his pet a great deal of license.
As a result, courtiers kept one eye on Damen, giving him a wide berth. Laurent used that to his advantage, using the propensity of courtiers to fall back in reaction to Damen’s presence as a means of extricating himself smoothly from conversation.
The third time this happened Damen said, ‘Shall I make a face at the ones you don’t like, or is it enough to just look like a barbarian?’
‘Shut up,’ said Laurent, calmly.
It was said that the Empress of Vask kept two leopards tied up by her throne. Damen tried not to feel like one of them.
Before the negotiations there were to be entertainments, before the entertainments a banquet, before the banquet this reception. There were not as many pets as there had been at the ring, but Damen did see one or two familiar faces. Across the room he saw a flash of red hair, found a pair of emerald eyes; Ancel uncurled himself from his master’s arm, pressed fingers to his lips, and blew Damen a kiss.
The Patran delegation, when they arrived, were obvious from the cut of their clothes. Laurent greeted Torveld like an equal, which he was. Almost.
In negotiations of consequence, it was common to send a man of high birth to act as ambassador. Torveld was Prince Torveld, younger brother to King Torgeir of Patras, though in his case ‘younger’ was relative. Torveld was a handsome man in his forties, close to twice Damen’s age. He had a neatly trimmed brown beard in the Patran style, brown hair still largely untouched by grey.