Damen said, ‘He hasn’t had it cut off.’
Nicaise’s eyes narrowed.
Damen said, ‘How long have you been a pet in this court?’
‘Three years,’ said Nicaise, in the sort of tone that said: You won’t last here three minutes.
Damen looked at him and wished he hadn’t asked. Whether he had a ‘child’s mind’ or not, physically Nicaise had not yet crossed over from child to adolescent. He was still prepubescent. He looked younger than any of the other pets Damen had seen at this court, all of whom had at least passed puberty. Three years.
The Patran delegation continued oblivious. With Torveld, Laurent was on his best behaviour. He had apparently—incredibly—divested himself of malice and washed his mouth out with soap. He talked intelligently about politics, and about trade, and if every now and then a little edge glimmered, it came across as wit—not barbed, just enough to say: You see? I can keep up.
Torveld showed less and less inclination to look at anyone else. It was like watching a man smile as he surrendered himself to drown in deep water.
Thankfully, it did not go on too long. In a miracle of restraint, there were only nine courses, served ribboned and artfully arranged on jewelled plates by attractive pages. The pets themselves ‘served’ not at all. Sitting nestled alongside their owners, some of them were hand fed, and one or two of them even brazenly helped themselves, playfully filching choice morsels from their masters, like pampered lapdogs who have learned that whatever they do, their doting owners will find them charming.
‘It’s a shame I haven’t been able to arrange for you to view the slaves,’ said Laurent, as the pages began to cover the table with sweets.
‘You don’t need to. We saw palace slaves in Akielos. I don’t think I’ve ever seen slaves of that quality, even in Bazal. And I trust your taste, of course.’
‘I’m glad,’ said Laurent.
Damen was aware that beside him, Nicaise had started intently listening.
‘I’m sure my uncle will agree to the exchange if you push for it strongly enough,’ said Laurent.
‘If he does, I will owe it to you,’ said Torveld.
Nicaise got up from the table.
Damen bridged the nine chilly inches at the first opportunity. ‘What are you doing? You were the one who warned me about Nicaise.’ He spoke in a low voice.
Laurent went very still; then he deliberately shifted in his seat and leaned in, bringing his lips right to Damen’s ear. ‘I think I’m out of stabbing range, he’s got short arms. Or perhaps he’ll try to throw a sugar plum? That is difficult. If I duck he’ll hit Torveld.’
Damen gritted his teeth. ‘You know what I meant. He heard you. He’s going to act. Can’t you do something about it?’
‘I’m occupied.’
‘Then let me do something.’
‘Bleed on him?’ said Laurent.
Damen opened his mouth to reply, and found his words stopped by the startling touch of Laurent’s fingers against his lips, a thumb brushing his jawline. It was the sort of absent touch that any master at the table might give to a pet. But from the shocked reaction that rolled over the courtiers at the table, it was clear that Laurent did not do this sort of th
ing often. Or ever.
‘My pet was feeling neglected,’ Laurent apologised to Torveld.
‘He’s the captive Kastor sent you to train?’ said Torveld, curiously. ‘He’s—safe?’
‘He looks combative, but he’s really very docile and adoring,’ said Laurent, ‘like a puppy.’
‘A puppy,’ said Torveld.
To demonstrate, Laurent picked up a confection of crushed nuts and honey and held it out to Damen as he had at the ring, between thumb and forefinger.
‘Sweetmeat?’ said Laurent.
In the stretched-out moment that followed, Damen thought explicitly about killing him.