‘That I am—not easily courted? It can’t be the worst thing you heard about me.’
‘By far the worst, from my perspective.’
It was said warmly, and won a breath of insubstantial amusement from Laurent.
Torveld’s voice changed, as though they stood closer together. ‘I have heard a great deal of gossip about you, but I judge as I find.’
Laurent said, in the same intimate voice, ‘And what do you find?’
Damen stepped forward determinedly.
Hearing his footfall, Torveld started and looked round; in Patras, affairs of the heart—or of the body—were usually private. Laurent, reclined elegantly against the balustrade, did not react at all except to shift his gaze in Damen’s direction. They were indeed standing close together. Not quite kissing distance.
‘Your Highness, your uncle has sent for you,’ said Damen.
‘Again,’ said Torveld, a line appearing in the middle of his forehead.
Laurent detached himself. ‘He’s overprotective,’ he said. The line disappeared when Torveld looked at Laurent.
‘You took your time,’ Laurent murmured as he passed Damen.
He was left alone with Torveld. It was peaceful out here on the balcony. The court sounds were muted, as though they were very distant. Louder and more intimate were the sounds of insects in the gardens below, and the slow back and forth of greenery. At some point it occurred to Damen that he was supposed to have lowered his eyes.
Torveld’s attention was elsewhere.
‘He is a prize,’ said Torveld, warmly. ‘I’ll wager you never thought a prince could be jealous of a slave. Right now I would exchange places with you in a heartbeat.’
You don’t know him, thought Damen. You don’t know anything about him. You’ve known him one night.
‘I think the entertainment will begin shortly,’ Damen said.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Torveld, and they followed Laurent back to the court.
Damen had, in his life, been required to sit through many spectacles. In Vere ‘entertainment’ had taken on new meaning. When Ancel came forward holding a long stick in his hands, Damen readied himself for the kind of performance that would make the Patran delegation faint. Then Ancel touched each end of the stick to the torch in the wall bracket, and they burst into flame.
It was a kind of fire dance in which the stick was thrown and caught, and the flame, tossed and twirled, created sinuous shapes, circles and ever-moving patterns. Ancel’s red hair created a pleasing aesthetic alongside the red and orange fire. And even without the hypnotic movement of the flame, the dance was beguiling, its difficulties made to look effortless, its physicality subtly erotic. Damen looked at Ancel with new respect. This performance required training, discipline and athleticism, which Damen admired. It was the first time that Damen had seen Veretian pets display skill in anything other than wearing clothes or climbing on top of one another.
The mood was relaxed. Damen was back on the leash, being used very possibly as a chaperone. Laurent was acting with the carefully bland manners of one trying politely to manage a difficult suitor. Damen thought with some amusement: boxed in by your own cleverness. As Damen watched, Torveld’s servant produced a peach, then a knife, then cut a slice at Torveld’s instruction, offering it to Laurent, who blandly accepted. When he had finished the morsel, the servant brought forth a little cloth from his sleeve with a flourish for Laurent to clean his immaculate fingers. The cloth was transparent silk, edged in gold thread. Laurent returned it crumpled.
‘I’m enjoying the performance,’ Damen couldn’t resist saying.
‘Torveld’s servant is better supplied than you are,’ was all Laurent said.
‘I don’t have sleeves to carry handkerchiefs in,’ said Damen. ‘I wouldn’t mind being given a knife.’
‘Or a fork?’ said Laurent.
A ripple of applause and a small commotion forestalled a reply. The flame dance was finished, and something was happening at the far end of the room.
Baulking like a green colt at the rein, Erasmus was being dragged forward by a Veretian handler.
He heard a girl’s fluting voice say, ‘Since you like them so much, I thought we could watch one of the slaves from Akielos perform.’
It was Nicaise, here on the small matter of an earring.
Torveld was shaking his head, congenially enough. ‘Laurent,’ he said. ‘You’ve been swindled by the King of Akielos. That can’t be a palace slave. He isn’t showing form at all. He can’t even sit still. I think Kastor just dressed up some serving boys and shipped them off to you. Although he is pretty,’ said Torveld. And then, in a slightly different voice, ‘Very pretty.’
He was very pretty. He was exceptional even among slaves chosen to be exceptional, handpicked to be served up to a prince. Except he was clumsy and graceless and was showing no sign of training. He had finally dropped to his knees, but he looked like he was staying there only because his limbs had seized up, his hands clenched as though cramped.