And Damen’s luck, which had so far held, deserted him in a rush.
Govart said, ‘Let me guess, I fucked one of yours, so you’ve come here to fuck one of mine.’
The distant sound of hooves on the cobblestones was followed by the sound of voices coming from the same direction, the cries that had woken the town a complaining hour ahead of schedule.
‘Or,’ said Govart, in the slow voice of one who nevertheless gets there in the end, ‘are you the reason the Guard’s out?’
Damen avoided the first swing, and the second. He kept a distance between their bodies, remembering Govart’s bear-like holds. The night was becoming an obstacle course of outlandish challenges. Stop an assassination. Scale a wall. Fight Govart. What else?
The woman, with her impressive, half-unclothed lung capacity, opened her mouth and screamed.
After that, things happened very quickly.
Three streets away, shouts and the clatter of hooves as the nearer patrol wheeled and made for the scream at full pelt. His only chance then was that they would miss the narrow opening of the alley. The woman realised this too, and screamed again, then ducked inside. The brothel door slammed, and bolted.
The alley was narrow, and could not comfortably manage three horses abreast, but two was enough. As well as horses and torches, the patrol had crossbows. He couldn’t resist, unless he wished to commit suicide.
Beside him, Govart was looking smug. He perhaps hadn’t realised that if the guard fired on Damen, he w
as going to be collateral damage.
Somewhere behind the two horses, a man dismounted, and came forward. It was the same soldier who had been in charge of the Regent’s Guard in Laurent’s apartments. More smugness. From the look on his face, being proven right about Damen had him extremely gratified.
‘On your knees,’ said the soldier in charge.
Were they going to kill him here? If so, he would fight, though he knew, against this many men with crossbows, how the fight would end. Behind the soldier in charge, the mouth of the alley bristled like a pine with crossbow bolts. Whether they planned to do it or not, they would certainly kill him here if given a single reasonable excuse.
Damen went, slowly, to his knees.
It was dawn. The air had that still, translucent quality that came with sunrise, even in a town. He looked around himself. It wasn’t a very pleasant alley. The horses didn’t like it, more fastidious than the humans who lived there. He let a breath out.
‘I arrest you for high treason,’ said the soldier. ‘for your part in the plot to assassinate the Crown Prince. Your life is forfeit to the Crown. The Council has spoken.’
He had taken his chance, and it had led him here. He felt not fear but the hard tangled sensation between his ribs of freedom dangled before him then snatched from his grasp. What rankled the most was that Laurent had been right.
‘Tie his hands,’ said the soldier in charge, tossing a piece of thin rope to Govart. Then he moved to one side, sword at Damen’s neck, giving the men in range a clear shot with the bow.
‘Move and die,’ said the soldier in charge. Which was an apt summary.
Govart caught the rope. If Damen was going to fight, he would have to do it now, before his hands were tied. He knew that, even as his mind, trained to fighting, saw the clear line to the crossbows and the twelve men on horseback, and returned with no tactic that would do more than make a commotion and a dent. Perhaps a few dents.
‘The punishment for treason is death,’ said the soldier.
In the moments before his sword lifted, before Damen moved, before the last, desperate act played out in the filthy alley, there was another burst of hooves, and Damen had to force down a breath of disbelieving laughter, remembering the second half of the patrol. Arriving now, like an unnecessary flourish. Really, even Kastor hadn’t sent as many men against him as this.
‘Hold!’ called a voice.
And in the dawn light, he saw that the men reining in their horses were not wearing the red cloaks of the Regent’s Guard, but instead were turned out in blue and gold.
‘It’s the bitch’s pups,’ said the soldier in charge, with total contempt.
Three of the Prince’s Guard had forced their horses past the impromptu blockade, and into the cramped space of the alley. Damen even recognised two of them, Jord in front on a bay gelding, and behind him the larger figure of Orlant.
‘You’ve got something of ours,’ said Jord.
‘The traitor?’ said the soldier in charge. ‘You’ve no rights here. Leave now, and I’ll let you go peacefully back.’
‘We’re not the peaceful sort,’ said Jord. His sword was unsheathed. ‘We don’t leave without the slave.’