Damen’s eyes caught on the knife.
His gaze swung down to the dead swordsman. There, too, a knife. A serrated blade-edge finished with the characteristic fretted hilt design of Sicyon, one of the northern provinces of Akielos.
The knife Laurent held was of the same design. It was bloody up to the hilt, he saw, as Laurent descended the shallow steps. It looked incongruous in his hand, since his fine white shirt had survived the struggle in immaculate condition and the lamplight was just as flattering to him as it had been before.
Damen recognised Laurent’s cold, strapped-down expression. He didn’t envy the man he held the interrogation that was coming.
‘What do you want me to do with him?’
‘Hold him still,’ said Laurent.
He came forward. Damen did as he was told. He felt the man make a renewed attempt to free himself, and simply tightened his grip, aborting the ripple of struggle.
Laurent lifted the serrated knife, and, calmly as a butcher, sliced open the man’s bearded throat.
Damen heard the choked sound, and felt the first spasms of the body within his grip. He let go, partly out of surprise, and the man’s hands came up to his own throat in a hopeless, instinctive gesture, too late. The thin red crescent drawn across his throat widened. He toppled.
Damen didn’t even think before he reacted—as Laurent slanted a look at him, changing his grip on the knife—he moved instinctively to neutralise the threat.
Body collided hard with body. Damen’s grip closed on the fine bones of Laurent’s wrist, but instead of having things immediately his own way, he was surprised to encounter a moment of muscled resistance. He applied greater pressure. He felt the resistance in Laurent’s body pushed to its limit, though he was still far from his own.
‘Let go of my arm,’ said Laurent, in a controlled voice.
‘Drop the knife,’ said Damen.
‘If you do not let go of my arm,’ said Laurent, ‘it will not go easily for you.’
Damen pushed just slightly harder, and felt the resistance shudder and give way; the knife clattered to the ground. As soon as it did, he let Laurent go. In the same motion Damen stepped backwards out of range. Instead of following him, Laurent also took two steps backwards, widening the distance between himself and Damen.
They stared at one another over the wreckage of the room.
The knife lay between them. The man with the slit throat was dead or dying, his body gone still and his head turned sideways. The blood had soaked through the livery that he wore, blotting out the starburst device of gold on blue.
Laurent’s struggles had not been as contained as Damen’s; the table was knocked over, the shattered pieces of a fine ceramic were strewn across the floor, and the goblet rolled on the tile. A wall hanging had been partly torn down. And there was a great deal of blood. Laurent’s first kill of the night had been even messier than his second.
Laurent’s breathing was shallow with exertion. So was Damen’s. Into the tense, wary moment, Laurent said, steadily:
‘You seem to vacillate between assistance and assault. Which is it?’
‘I’m not surprised you’ve driven three men to try and kill you, I’m only surprised there weren’t more,’ said Damen, bluntly.
‘There were,’ said Laurent, ‘more.’
Understanding his meaning, Damen flushed. ‘I didn’t volunteer. I was brought here. I don’t know why.’
‘To cooperate,’ said Laurent.
‘Cooperate?’ said Damen, with complete disgust. ‘You were unarmed.’ Damen remembered the lax way that man had held a knife on him; they had indeed expected him to cooperate, or at the very least, stand by and watch. He frowned at the closest of the still faces. He disliked the idea that anyone at all believed him capable of cutting down an unarmed man, four on one. Even if that man was Laurent.
Laurent stared at him.
‘Like the man you just killed,’ said Damen, looking back at him.
‘In my part of the fight the men were not helpfully killing each other,’ Laurent said.
Damen opened his mouth. Before he could speak, there was a sound from the corridor. They both instinctively squared off towards the bronze doors. The sound became the clatter of light armour and weaponry, and soldiers in the Regent’s livery were pouring into the room—two—five—seven—the odds started to become daunting. But—
‘Your Highness, are you hurt?’